My father sat under the big oak tree
He said, “remember your ma, if you don’t remember me”,
I said, “don’t worry, Dad. I’m coming home next year”,
He said, “a long way back I told my Daddy that but that was 1923”.
I wrote postcards and letters from the diners on the road
but the drink and the women and the drugs they took hold
when I thought about home I’d just sink another beer.
You tend to forget your kin when you’re living in sin
and your heart is filled with fear.
It’s no kind of life when you steal and you fight
and you isolate yourself in the city at night.
A man grows tired of keeping bad company.
I’d think of old friends and how I loved them to death
and pray they’d remember me.
I’m coming home.
The bus rides were a long time to consider my pain,
if you ain’t got a ticket you ain’t getting on the train.
I might not have wheels but I still got my feet.
I’ll busk and I’ll borrow in the hopes that tomorrow
will be the day that we shall meet.
My mother lay under the big oak tree.
He said “there’s no longer your ma, but you still got me”,
I said “don’t worry, Dad. I won’t be leaving here”,
He said, “I too am a rat, so don’t give me that, I’ll just wait and see.”
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