With your old dog at your side,
Out the back door slipped away,
And you climbed [bad word] Catskills,
That sunny summer day.
And you came upon a little man,
Who took you up the side,
Of a mountain valley lush and green,
With a twinkle in his eye.
Didn’t ask your name or question you,
But bid you tote his cask,
Full of rich dark wine, up the steep hillside,
And through a hidden pass.
So, you joined with his crew,
In a flagon or two,
And they filled your long white pipe,
And the dreams that you wove,
Like a fine tapestry,
Are laced throughout your mind,
On that summer day, when you slipped away,
From your nagging industrious wife.
And it seemed but a night, that you slept out your life,
Never were on to question the time,
With your beard a foot long, you entered a town,
That bore a resemblance to home.
The children you’d known, from the past have all grown,
And your old dog just offers a bite.
They don’t know who you are with your beard and long hair,
Not a sign of your nagging old wife.
But you laugh deep inside because you’ve beaten their game,
You’ve been dreaming away your whole life.
You have mocked all [bad word] - butchers, bakers and fools,
You’ve returned just to ask for a light.
You don’t need to explain, where you’ve been,
what you’ve seen,
Rip Van Winkle, just pass me the pipe...