While my father smoked his pipe
and my mother knitted things
I wasn't always into seeing things,
To travel till I cherished every mile
I remember asking questions
While my father smoked his pipe
and my mother knitted things
And my brother took a liking
Then leave her with a young 'un
And a lot of shattered dreams
While my father smoked his pipe
And my mother knitted things
And the factories pumped their poison
And the people prayed for peace
There were cycles within cycles
And the gifts the poets sprang
While my father smoked his pipe
And my mother knitted things
And a million marching men or more
Kept moving through the maze
And so very few would ever learn
to hear the songs we sing.
While their fathers smoked their pipes
and their mothers knitted things.
Yes, my father smoked his pipe
And my mother knitted things
I wasn't always into seeing things
