In his old worn-out overcoat
He would go, winter, summer
In the chilly early morning
My old man

There was only one Sunday a week
The other days it was the grind
That he would earn as best he could
My old man

In the summer, we would go see the sea
You see, it wasn't misery
It wasn't paradise either
Oh well, too bad

In his old worn-out overcoat
For years he took
The same suburban bus
My old man

In the evening, coming home from work
He would sit down without saying a word
He was the silent type
My old man

Sundays were monotonous
We never had anyone over
It didn't make him unhappy
I think, my old man

In his old worn-out overcoat
On payday when he came home
We could hear him yell a bit
My old man

We, we knew the song
Everything was fair game, bourgeois, bosses
The left, the right, even God
With my old man

At our place, we didn't have a TV
I would go outside to find
A few hours of escape
I know, it's stupid

To think that I spent years
Next to him without looking at him
We barely opened our eyes
The two of us

I could have, it wasn't smart
Walked a bit of the way with him
It might have made him happy
My old man

But when you're just 15 years old
You don't have a big enough heart
To hold all these things
You see

Now that he's far from here
Thinking about all this, I tell myself
I wish he was near me
Dad

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