Lyrics:

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 country