It's the feeling I get looking down at my brand new baby, Holding on to Daddy's thumb just as tightly as he can hold; And it's hearing people say he looks alot like his daddy, These things are a poor man's gold. It's the twinkle in the eyes of the gray haired old man we call Grandpa, Telling tales to the kids that get taller every time they're told; And it's knowing that for awhile he's no longer lonely, These things are a poor man's gold. It's the smell of honeysuckle in the springtime, It's the silence of a freshly fallen snow; It's the sound of children laughing in the sunshine, It's a crisp Autumn night with a million stars all aglow. It's the sweet, sleepy sound of your warm and gentle breathing, As you cling to me in the night to keep away the cold; And it's the softness of your body there in the darkness, These things are a poor man's gold. Honey, these precious things are a poor man's gold.