|
I'm waiting in the pines |
|
I'm waiting in the forest |
|
Pilon at my side |
|
The treasure lies before us |
|
|
|
And so we started walking |
|
We knew they couldn't harm us |
|
And how the wind is crying |
|
When misty morning dawn breaks |
|
|
|
We'll walk back to the flats |
|
With gallons in our hands |
|
|
|
We're walking in the fields |
|
We're working on the farms |
|
We do just like our fathers |
|
How can they take that from us? |
|
|
|
And so we started driving |
|
We had no choice to leave this |
|
The bowl was left behind us |
|
For Hooverville's before us |
|
|
|
Three hundred thousand |
|
Bodies who can't rest |
|
|
|
Sweet Thursday is calling me back up to Monterey |
|
Up to Monterey |
|
|
|
So I started driving |
|
And left my home behind me |
|
The row there kept reminding |
|
Of pages in your writing |
|
|
|
Sweet Thursday is calling me back up to Monterey |
|
Up to Monterey |
