Calvados

There's an old cart horse

With a wiry mane

Pulls a cart along a country lane

It's been rolling since before the break of day

Tending the Orchard

Stacking up the hay

The old farmer sits holding the reigns

Guiding the cart through Normandy lanes

Slow and steady is the way

The way it was, the way it is, and the way it will remain

And so

Oh, the apples will grow

The barrels will roll

Soon to become liquid gold

And the Calvados will flow

In the kitchen sits the farmer's wife

Picking her teeth with a pocket knife

Her soul a mess of blues and chicken wire

She brushes the dog

Spits in the fire

Takes down the bottle, takes down the glass

And pours herself a tiny splash

Of the serum from the sacred orchard's soil

Perfumed with the product of their blood and sweat and toil

And so

The apples will grow

The barrels will roll

Soon to become liquid gold

Calvados will flow

The apples still grow

The barrels will still roll

Soon to become liquid gold

And the calvados will flow