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 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 mis'ry

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
'Bout the water in me whiskey
The brass passed off as gold
Another round
We're descending into old time mem'ry
Of a day when wood was wooden
Silver silver, gold was gold
Sweet home was home

So you say you've 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 throwback when I cry
"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 time 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 long to 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
In what was country

Ah, 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 time 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 your whiskey
The brass passed off as gold
Another round
We're descending into old time mem'ry
Of a day when wood was wooden
Silver silver, gold was gold
Sweet home was home

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Lyrics submitted by ricecracker420, edited by IngrishyHorn

Ol time memr'y song meanings

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My Interpretation
OK... here's my line by line -- but I could be way off:

When dad passed away, we sold the family farm. We sold the land that he toiled away on for housing developments to be built. Our generation are not farmers.
Farming itself is a dying tradition.
There really is no place for it in today's society.
While the bartender fills my glass, he says we're living in the past Why preserve the antiquated tradition of farming? End it's misery.
We sigh and say that our generation no longer values land as anything more than property.

We're lamenting about yesterday...

So you say you've got this fancy new fake wood stove in your second home.
They really designed that sucker to mimic an actual antique wood stove.
And then you've got up this home sweet home banner, along with a quote from Thoreau. And they call ME a throwback when I cry remember??? Essentially, you've created this fake environment in your second home to make it seem quaint and rustic as your way of reminiscing about the past. But I'm looking at our fields and rangelands as my reminder of the past -- a past which is ever fading away by an encroaching city.

Son, these tools (farm tools?) are artifacts... no longer useful, obsolete. We (the farmers?) are an endangered species leaving our tracks. Even we are getting locked up in the urban environment of the city.
Once that happens, there's no going back.
Farming is essentially dead.
Except when it's sold for its kitschy/touristy values (wine tasting, dude ranches, etc.)

But I'll never understand why they'll always keep building houses out in the country for the people who want to get out of the city -- but what they're really building is cheap tract housing. Big, fancy boxes where you are stored in what was once the agriculturally dominant country.

OK... here's my line by line -- but I could be way off: When dad passed away, we sold the family farm. We sold the land that he toiled away on for housing developments to be built. Our generation are not farmers. Farming itself is a dying tradition. There really is no place for it in today's society. While the bartender fills my glass, he says we're living in the past Why preserve the antiquated tradition of farming? End it's misery. We sigh and say that our generation no longer values land as anything more than property. We're lamenting about yesterday... So you say you've got this fancy new fake wood stove in your second home. They really designed that sucker to mimic an actual antique wood stove. And then you've got up this home sweet home banner, along with a quote from Thoreau. And they call *ME* a throwback when I cry remember??? Essentially, you've created this fake environment in your second home to make it seem quaint and rustic as your way of reminiscing about the past. But I'm looking at our fields and rangelands as my reminder of the past -- a past which is ever fading away by an encroaching city. Son, these tools (farm tools?) are artifacts... no longer useful, obsolete. We (the farmers?) are an endangered species leaving our tracks. Even we are getting locked up in the urban environment of the city. Once that happens, there's no going back. Farming is essentially dead. Except when it's sold for its kitschy/touristy values (wine tasting, dude ranches, etc.) But I'll never understand why they'll always keep building houses out in the country for the people who want to get out of the city -- but what they're really building is cheap tract housing. Big, fancy boxes where you are stored in what was once the agriculturally dominant country.

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plasticmirthon May 19, 2010 Link
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