Olde Tyme Mem'ry

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
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