when father bought the farm we sold the farm
we stick his blood through rustic charms
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 a barman shakes his head and fills my glass says we're livin' in the past
why preserve a dying craft in its misery
we sigh and say another modern man one of property not land so hold out this battered hand while u listen
CHORUS
come sit down, we're lamenting about yesterdays sad ending, bout the water in me whiskey, the brass passed off as gold
another round we're descending into old time memory of a day when wood was wooden, silver - silver, gold was gold, sweet home was home
so you say you got a wood stove and your second home runs on gas but looks like oak, hell it even gives off smoke and glowing ambers, theres a quilbum on the wall reads home sweet home the loathsome wise words from the road and they call me throwback when i cry remember
CHORUS
son these tools are artefacts
endangered species left its tracks
lock me up behind plastic glass in the city
theres no going back for me
this santiques rustic eulogy shall be sold as folk artistries - such a pity
but ill 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 herms and hollow doors paper ceilings, padded floors luxury boxes where your stored and what was country
CHORUS
we stick his blood through rustic charms
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 a barman shakes his head and fills my glass says we're livin' in the past
why preserve a dying craft in its misery
we sigh and say another modern man one of property not land so hold out this battered hand while u listen
CHORUS
come sit down, we're lamenting about yesterdays sad ending, bout the water in me whiskey, the brass passed off as gold
another round we're descending into old time memory of a day when wood was wooden, silver - silver, gold was gold, sweet home was home
so you say you got a wood stove and your second home runs on gas but looks like oak, hell it even gives off smoke and glowing ambers, theres a quilbum on the wall reads home sweet home the loathsome wise words from the road and they call me throwback when i cry remember
CHORUS
son these tools are artefacts
endangered species left its tracks
lock me up behind plastic glass in the city
theres no going back for me
this santiques rustic eulogy shall be sold as folk artistries - such a pity
but ill 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 herms and hollow doors paper ceilings, padded floors luxury boxes where your stored and what was country
CHORUS