honey don't you be yelling at me when I'm cleaning my gun
I'll wash the blood off the tailgate when deer season"s done
we've got one more weekend to go
and I'd sure like to kill one more doe
well I"ll shovel the sidewalk again 'cause you"re still in a stew
and I'll bet the bridge tender's widow wouldn't mind if I couldn't please you
she's sure got the run of the men
out here where the pickings are thin
and there's not much to do
and I woke up last night
in the grip of a fright
scared to breathe for I might make a noise
of this life that we crave
so little we save
between the grandparents' graves
and the grandchildren's toys
and we grew up hard
and our children don't know what that means
we turned into our parents before we were out of our teens
through a series of Chevy's and Fords
the occasional spin round the floor
at The Copper Canteen
now the big boxes out on the by-pass are shaving us thin
I guess we'll hold on a couple more years 'til the pension kicks in
then we'll sell all the stock in the store
leave only the lock on the door
and wonder what then
when I wake up at night
in the grip of a fright
and you hold me so tight to your chest
and your breath on my skin
still pulls me back in
' til I'm weightless and then I can rest
so if Monsignor should pull you aside as you're leaving the church
and I'm out on the ice dropping lines for the walleye and perch
tell him it's not your job to bring me to the fold
and I'd rather stand out in the cold
and honey I know, the woodpile is low, and we can't close the flu
so I'll split up a couple more cords 'fore the winter time's through
hold on to your rosary beads
leave me to my mischievous deeds
like we always do
I'll wash the blood off the tailgate when deer season"s done
we've got one more weekend to go
and I'd sure like to kill one more doe
well I"ll shovel the sidewalk again 'cause you"re still in a stew
and I'll bet the bridge tender's widow wouldn't mind if I couldn't please you
she's sure got the run of the men
out here where the pickings are thin
and there's not much to do
and I woke up last night
in the grip of a fright
scared to breathe for I might make a noise
of this life that we crave
so little we save
between the grandparents' graves
and the grandchildren's toys
and we grew up hard
and our children don't know what that means
we turned into our parents before we were out of our teens
through a series of Chevy's and Fords
the occasional spin round the floor
at The Copper Canteen
now the big boxes out on the by-pass are shaving us thin
I guess we'll hold on a couple more years 'til the pension kicks in
then we'll sell all the stock in the store
leave only the lock on the door
and wonder what then
when I wake up at night
in the grip of a fright
and you hold me so tight to your chest
and your breath on my skin
still pulls me back in
' til I'm weightless and then I can rest
so if Monsignor should pull you aside as you're leaving the church
and I'm out on the ice dropping lines for the walleye and perch
tell him it's not your job to bring me to the fold
and I'd rather stand out in the cold
and honey I know, the woodpile is low, and we can't close the flu
so I'll split up a couple more cords 'fore the winter time's through
hold on to your rosary beads
leave me to my mischievous deeds
like we always do