When father bought the farm, we sold the farm Mistook his blood for rustic charm Sold his ghost as an antique, to the city And kids today can’t hold a spade Rest in peace, ye olde weary trades In this world, there is no place, such a pity Well, the barman shakes his head and fills my glass Says we’re living in the past “Why preserve a dying craft? End its misery.” We sigh and say, “Another modern man One of property not land.” So I’ll hold out this battered hand Will you listen?
Come sit down, we’re lamenting About yesterday’s sad ending About the water in me’ whiskey The brass passed off as gold Another round, we’re descending Into olde time mem’ry Of a day when wood was wooden Silver silver, gold was gold Sweet home was home
So you say you got a wood stove in your second home Runs on gas but looks like oak Hell, it even gives off smoke and glowing embers There’s a quilt hung on the wall, reads “Home Sweet Home.” Below, some wise words from Thoreau And they call me a throwback when I cry, “Remember?”
Son, these tools are artifacts Endangered species left its tracks So lock me up behind plastic glass in the city There’s no going back for me This antique’s rustic eulogy Shall be sold as folk artistry, such a pity But I’ll never understand Why they all long to use those hands To build a stead that will always stand in “olde tyme” country But settle for white rooms and hollow doors Paper ceilings, padded floors Luxury boxes where you’re stored in what was countryTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
