Mama always said me and the old man were two of a kind

And now, just like he once did

I work these woods north of the C.P. line

Mama gets upset when I call her

She's living home alone

And I guess the old man's voice and mine

Always sounded the same over the telephone

Papa's been gone six years now

He got to choose the how and when and where he'd die

I think about him after work sometimes

Once I've passed the halfway point on a fifth of rye

Papa told me once a man must work if he's going to take care of his

And you've got to work the big woods when that's the only work there is

But the big woods will just use you up

Drain your strength and soul, and ask for more

Until you find yourself a broken man pushing forty

Who just can't do the job no more

Tonight in this bar I caught myself holding a cigarette

The same strange way he did

So I raised my glass and I drank a round to the old man

And the old man's kid

I believe I was the last one to see the old man alive

He lost his job at forty-one, took himself out at forty-five

I saw him walking down the tote road

With his twelve-gauge pump and a pint of rye

And it just wasn't in me to stop him

Goodbye, Papa, goodbye