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I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand |
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Into the busstop |
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To pick up a paper for my old man |
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I'd sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through town |
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He'd tousle my hair and say son take a good look around this is your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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This is your hometown |
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This is your hometown |
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In '65 tension was running high, at my high-school |
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There was a lot of fights between the black and white |
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There was nothing you could do |
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Two cars at a light on a Saturday night, in the back seat there was a gun |
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Words were passed, in a shotgun blast |
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Troubled times had come, to my hometown |
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My hometown |
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My hometown |
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My hometown |
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Now Main Street's white washed windows |
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And vacant stores |
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Seems like there ain't nobody |
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Wants to come down here no more |
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They're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks |
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Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they ain't coming back to your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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Last night me and Kate we laid in bed talking about getting out |
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Packing up our bags maybe heading south |
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I'm 35, we got a boy of our own now |
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Last night I sat him up, behind the wheel and said son take a good look around, this is your hometown |
