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