On the table I placed my dreams, on the table my grandfather made. I placed my hopes in the warm moon beams, I closed my eyes and I start to fade. Waiting quiet when I was a lad, my grandfather sat there much more than my dad. I watched the sun in his gray hairs, and down in the cellar I followed him there. He worked with his tools, he worked with his wood, he made many things do anything he could. The grandmother laughed for always he hit away, she thought he was daft, they were like night and day. And yeah, he's no saint, and he could be a pain, but he was real to me, and he helped me to see. But now he's gone away and he's not coming back. Not tomorrow, not today, he is gone. That's a fact. All I have left is this table, and a sad, sorry, fable, where I placed my hopes and dreams, and love, and heart, and everything.