| When Father bought the farm, we sold the farm
|
| Mistook his blood for rustic charm
|
| Sold his ghost as an antique
|
| To the city
|
| Kids today can’t hold a spade
|
| Rest in peace your 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 see another modern man
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| One of property, not land
|
| So I hold out this battered hand
|
| Will you listen?
|
| Come sit down, we’re lamenting about yesterday’s sad ending
|
| 'Bout the water in me whiskey
|
| The brass passed off as gold
|
| Another round, we’re descending into old tyme mem’ry
|
| Of a day when wood was wooden, silver-silver, gold was gold
|
| Sweet home was home
|
| So you say you got a wooden 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 throwback; |
| when I cry I remember
|
| Come sit down, we’re lamenting about yesterday’s sad ending
|
| 'Bout the water in me whiskey
|
| The brass passed off as gold
|
| Another round, we’re descending into old tyme mem’ry
|
| Of a day when wood was wooden, silver-silver, gold was gold
|
| Sweet home was home
|
| 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 only use those hands
|
| To build a stead that will always stand
|
| In old time country
|
| But settle for white rooms and hollow doors
|
| Paper ceilings, padded floors
|
| Luxury boxes where you’re stored; |
| and what was country?
|
| Come sit down, we’re lamenting about yesterday’s sad ending
|
| 'Bout the water in me whiskey
|
| The brass passed off as gold
|
| Another round, we’re descending into old tyme mem’ry
|
| Of a day when wood was wooden, silver-silver, gold was gold
|
| Another round, we’re lamenting about yesterday’s sad ending
|
| 'Bout the water in me whiskey
|
| The brass passed off as gold
|
| Another round, we’re descending into old tyme mem’ry
|
| Of a day when wood was wooden, silver-silver, gold was gold
|
| Sweet home was home |