Thank God For The Foxes

Mr. Ford didn't pay that well in nineteen sixty-nine

And winter didn't fancy faded nickels and dimes.

Three growing boys and their mother at home

And I knew my money well was running dry

I took to the woods like my daddy had said

"There's money in these hills of Metamor'.

Cutting trees, hunting game, and there's always picking 'seng

There's no such thing as ever being poor"

I'll warm my home with the shagbark

I'll feed my boys with the doves.

I'll grace my wife with a lily in her hair

And I will thank my God for the foxes.

My boys, now are grown, with kids of their own

Joyce and I live on fifty-two.

We sing in a quartet or sometimes a trio

But the best songs are sung with just two.

I worship my Lord on the sabbath.

I campaign my son as county judge

I still pick the lilies, and place them in her hair

And I thank my God for the foxes.

I always be thankful for these hills of Metamor'.

And I thank my God for the foxes.