Current Track: Blabb
KEYBOARD SHORTCUTS
In olden days, our forefathers (there's four of us, you see
Counting George, Itoma, and you, and also me)
Would tarry by the power tools, the plumbing, and the paint,
Where credit card constraining was the heart free of restraint.
And we did not believe that this was 'an activity'
For such paternal pilgrimage was hardly heavenward.
Lord how we prayed the hours to pass and set us finally free!
Our home, it was a depot. And all its wares were hard.

And this one was a bricklayer, and this one taught the bow,
And this one fetched a capon from the kitchens of Cost Co.
Perhaps one was a tinker, tailor, soldier, or a spy
All to conceal the simple truth: Your father's just Some Guy.
He knoweth not the answers to the darnedest things we say.
He knoweth not the wilderness 'gainst which is he is on guard.
And he (all four of him) did not suspect his son was gay.
Our home, it was a depot. And all its wares were hard.

Oh let us have some charity upon that age'd brow.
For who among us can deny we've sought out hardware now?
As once did our forefathers (there's four of us, recall,
In this our thread of bluish skies, woven wondrous small.)
And let no simple joy in making more a house a home--
In these cold latter ages by the dollar scoured and scarred--
Be spoken ill. It warms the heart within this catacomb.
Our homes, they are a depot. And all our wares are hard.

Oh Prince of Trash, the gardening section, in the cool of day--
The bags of mulch, the nursery plants yet dreaming of a yard--
Is just as fit a rendezvous as anywhere, I say.
Our home may be a depot, but yet our wares are hard.