I know about a man to whom I may be related, he’s leatherman.
Died a long time ago in the 1880’s…leatherman, leatherman.
Covered with leather, but it was tight.
Underneath the moon in the woods at night…

Makin’ the rounds ten miles a day,
Once a month they’d spot him, here’s what they’d say…
"Here he comes, he’s a man of the land.
He’s leatherman. Smile on his face, an axe in his pack.
He’s leatherman."

Comes out of the caves once a day to be fed.
Wasn’t known to say but "Thanks for the bread."

So modern day I walk my way, my jacket faded,
Just like a man of leather whom I may be related.

Rolled a cigarette, but when he asked for a light,
I thought he’d be an animal, but so polite.

Makin’ the rounds ten miles a day.
Once a month they’d spot him and here’s what they’d say…
"Here he comes, he’s a man of the land, he’s leatherman.
Smile on his face, an axe in his hand.
He’s leatherman."

Shake his hand he’s leatherman.
Bake some bread he’s leatherman.
Shame he’s dead. I saw his bed,
It’s all that’s left of leatherman.

Give me some skin, leatherman.

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