Harold Wilson Songtext
von Fred Eaglesmith

Harold Wilson is my name, son, why don′t you sit a spell
I live right here on the Fergusson Road at the Paradise Motel
And though you do not know me, there's a story I like to tell
It′s a story that I'm sure you know well
It's a story that I′m sure you know well

I had me a place on Thunder Ridge in a doomsday shack
My wife had left and took the kids a couple of years back
And I spent most of my mornings thinkin′ about that
And my afternoons tryin' to figure out what to plant
I spent my afternoons tryin′ to figure out what to plant

Did you ever try to farm a farm with a pick and a shovel?
Try to put a field into corn, just wouldn't grow nothin′
Starin' down across the town, you wonder why I even bother
When up the road there′s a vacant room, climate control and colour
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars


There wasn't money in corn, and there wasn't money in beans
They took my telephone, shut off my electricity
Then a letter came in the mail sayin′ there′s taxes owed by me
And if I was ever going to pay, well, I had three weeks
If I was ever going to pay, well, I had three weeks

Did you ever try to farm a farm with a pick and a shovel?
Try to put a field into corn, just wouldn't grow nothin′
Starin' down across the town, you wonder why I even bother
When up the road there′s a vacant room, climate control and colour
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars

Well, they sold that farm to some fool for ten cents on the dollar
I saw him out there last week, I was on my way to visit my daughter
And that son of a gun is out there
Tryin' to hook a windmill up to water
When he heard me laugh, well, he turned and I swear he hollered
When he heard me laugh, well, he turned, I swear he hollered

Did you ever try to farm a farm with a pick and a shovel?
Try to put a field into corn, just wouldn′t grow nothin'
Starin' down across the town, you wonder why I even bother
When up the road there′s a vacant room, climate control and colour
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars
And you could stay there by the month for a hundred dollars


Now the government cheques come down the pike as regular as rain
And I sit outside most nights ′cept when the June bugs drive me in
Harold Wilson is my name, son, why don't you sit a spell
I live right here on the Fergusson Road at the Paradise Motel