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This evening the pigeons turned to bars of gold |
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In the sun's last light |
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And across the river, Camden is a guilded kingdom |
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on the verge of night |
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And so poised here at the edge of the city |
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I'm getting high on the sound |
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Of the buzz of 95 |
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And the scent of something going down. |
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CHORUS: |
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East, baby, where the South Street floats into the sky. |
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Tonight east is all I need to finally start to feel defined. |
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And so a man standin' out over the highway |
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As an autumn twilight chills his skin |
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At last has come to terms that where he's from |
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is more then where he's been |
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Now the traffic in the flashing shadows of the final glow |
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Are just a rush of burning chariots driven by the ancient lure of home |
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And with my hands tucked deep down in my pockets |
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I see my own breath in the light |
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Of the east that holds and soothes me |
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As I spin west into Friday night. |
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*CHORUS* |
