The Rifle

Oh, I've been knockin' on that door in my sleep
Fighting the fireplace glow
I've been knockin' on that door in my sleep
Fighting the fireplace glow
To keep me away
To keep me away from home

And Papa, get the rifle from its place above the French doors
They're comin' from the woods, oh, they're comin' from the woods
And Mama, you're running too, oh, my mama, you're running too
Mama, you're running too, oh, my mama, you're running too
And brother, I'm so sorry that you watched the paintings burn

And I've been holding onto the gold
When letting go would free my hand
And I've been tying your tongue in a knot
Oh, I've been tying your tongue in a knot
To wrap this death
To wrap this death in a sheet

And Papa, get the rifle from its place above the French doors
They're comin' from the woods, oh, they're comin' from the woods
And Mama you're running too, oh, my mama, you're running too
Mama, you're running too, oh, my mama, you're running too
And brother, I'm so sorry that you watched the paintings burn

And I can't hide those dirty paths down that carpet anymore
No, no, I can't hide those dirty paths down that carpet anymore
There were too many heavy boots
There were too many heavy boots
There were too many heavy boots
And there were too many big black boots
And there were too many little brown shoes
Marching through

So I'm counting it to the sky
Oh, I'm counting it to the sky
I'm counting it to the sky
Oh, I'm counting it to the sky
And moving back, oh, I'm
Moving back to face the lack of home