Don’t go by the homestead cos there’s no on there no more.
Its been twenty five years since they turned a key in the door.
All the faces of my childhood have faded and past me bye.
I wont go bye the old folks homestead as I know that I mite cry.
There’s a rusty windmill turning just by the old plum tree.
And the passion fruit defiant grows on the lavertree.
The chimneys tumbled down and the roof has fallen through.
The front gate lays decaying its become white ant food.
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And the sound of laughing children filled the mountain air.
The smell of country cooking makes me wish I was still there.
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I hear some one a whistling as I drift into a trance.
There’s foot steps on the porch where the old folks used to dance.
And if memories are all you have, then its time to look ahead.
Its fine to sit and reminisce but no time to regret.
There’s a head stone on the hillside the grass has crowded in.
Never lost to my memory what a wonder it has been.
Don’t go by the old folk’s homestead cos there’s no on there no more.
Its been twenty five years now its time to lock the door.
