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I met a kid in Brooklyn and he pointed at the skies |
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he had liquor on his breath and he had fire in his eyes |
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he staggered at me and stumbled and I helped him to his feet |
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I led him up the stairs and sat upon his balcony |
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he wielded up his glass and waved it around just like a sword |
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but one more sword of whiskey left me feeling pretty bored |
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he said, "I'd rather take dead aim than shoot my pistol in the air |
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I'd rather be a traitor than a man who doesn't care." |
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oh oh oh |
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a man who doesn't care |
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oh oh |
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I met a girl here in Ithaca |
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she took to me at once |
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I look just like her brother who had died when she was young |
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she whispered me her secrets and she whispered me her fear |
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and said so many things that I would never want to hear |
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she tried to draw me in just like a sickness in the soul |
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and said, "my little confidant together we must go |
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if they ask you for your papers, just respectfully decline |
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it's true I was born here but this country isn't mine." |
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oh oh oh |
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this country isn't mine |
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oh oh |
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so listen well son |
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to conversation |
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and always take from the words of the people that you meet |
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if you do this |
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better witness |
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you might help a little still |
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and out in California |
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with an old dear friend |
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we drank expensive burbon |
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and we tried to talk again |
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he looked out at his watch |
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and ran a hand across his head |
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said, "I'm working in the morning |
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man I've got to get to bed." |
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I nodded yes of course |
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and I was happy to oblige |
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and we both took one more sip |
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before the gray light over skies |
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he said one thing I remember every evening in these hills |
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"the sun may set on friendship |
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but never on your bills." |
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oh oh oh |
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never on your bills |
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oh oh |
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so listen well son |
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to conversation |
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and always take from the words of the people that you meet |
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if you do this |
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better witness |
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you might help a little still |
