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Robinson-Hill |
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Everyone knows him as Old Folks |
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Like the seasons, he'll come and he'll go |
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Just as free as a bird and as good as his word |
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That's why everybody loves him so |
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Always leaving his spoon in his coffee |
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Tucks his napkin up under his chin |
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And that yellow cow-pie is so mellow it's ripe |
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But you needn't be ashamed of him |
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Every Friday he'll go fishing, down on his favourite lake |
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But he only hooks a perch or two, the whale got away |
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Looks like we warm the steak |
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Someday there'll be no more Old Folks |
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What a lonesome old town this will be |
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Children's voice at play, will be still for a day |
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The day they take the Old Folks away |
