Honey, don't you be yelling at me when I'm cleaning my gun
I'll wash the blood off the tailgate when deer season's done
We got one more weekend to go
And I'd like to kill one more doe
So I'll shovel the sidewalk again 'cause you're still in a stew
I bet the bridge tender's widow won't mind that I can't please you
She's sure got the run of the men
Out here where the pickin's are thin and there's not much to do
I woke up last night in the grip of a fright scared to breathe for I might make a noise
This life that we craved so little we saved between the grandparents graves and the grandchildren's toys
We grew up hard and our children don't know what that means
We turned into our parents before we were out of our teens
Through a series of Chevys and Fords
The occasional spin round the floor at the Copper Canteen
Now the big boxes out on the bypass are shaving us thin
I guess we'll hold on a couple more years 'til the pension kicks in
Then we'll sell all the stock in the store
Leave only the lock on the door
And wonder what then
When I wake up at night in the grip of a fright and you hold me so tight to your chest
Then your breath on my skin still pulls me back in 'til I'm weightless and then I can rest
So if Monsignor should pull you aside as you're leaving the church
And I'm out on the ice, dropping lines for the walleye and perch
Tell him it's not your job to bring me to the fold
And I'd rather stand out in the cold
And honey I know that the woodpile's low and you can't close the flue
So I'll split up a couple more cords 'fore the winter time's through
Hold on to your rosary beads
Leave me to my mischievous deeds like we always do