Music by Willard Robison
Lyric by Dedette Lee Hill
Ev’ry one knows him as Old Folks,
Like the seasons he’ll come and he’ll go
Just as free as a bird, and as good as his word,
That’s why ev’rybody loves him so.
Always leavin’ his spoon in his coffee,
Puts his napkin up under his chin.
And that yellow cob pipe, it’s so mellow it’s ripe,
But, you needn’t be ashamed of him.
In the evening, after supper, what stories he would tell:
How he held the speech at Gettysburg
For Lincoln that day.
I know that one so well.
Don’t quite understand about Old Folks.
Did he fight for the blue or the gray?
For he’s so diplomatic and so democratic,
We always let him have his way.
We Always know where to find Old Folks,
When there’s some little chore he can do
At the old liv’ry stable, when ever he’s able,
Pitchin’ the shoes with lawd knows who.
Then he meets the late train at the station
Sits and whittles when it’s overdue.
While they’re sortin’ the mail, ev’ry night without fail
He’s sneakin’ a little nip or two.
Ev’ry Friday he’ll go fishin’ way down on Buzzards Lake.
But he only hooks a perch or two.
A whale got away,
So we warm up the steak.
Oh, some day there’ll be no more Old Folks.
What a lonely old town this will be.
Children’s voices at play, will be stilled for a day,
The day that they take Old Folks away.
(last ending: replace last two lines above with:)
Seems that I’ve heard some mention, he lives on a pension,
He’ll never come right out and say.