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On a lone and windy hilltop beneath a roof of tin |
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In a little wallpapered bedroom I done my growin'. |
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'Twas there I dreamt my dreams, I hung my jeans |
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And wandered through my puberty as all do. |
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My mother was a tight nut bound up with false guilt |
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Strapped up in her fearing wall she had built. |
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The independent girl in a dark and cruel world |
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She'd lost the way to say, "OK, now lay back". |
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We disagreed on most things, I shouted peace and love |
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The family is mankind, the symbol of the dove. |
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She only saw the surface of things before her face |
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But I was young and argued on for hours. |
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My father he liked poetry, a scholar he might have made. |
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Had nothing, born a poor boy barefoot and underpaid |
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So the man worked with his hands up and down the land, |
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His dreams forgot he thought that I must follow. |
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With his marks as worker's wisdom he'd read a thing or two |
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He once had been a Mason but he never followed through. |
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Always kind and thoughtful, smelling of mushy oil |
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And he read me poetry of visionaries. |
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I flunk my way to college, a looser kind of school |
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But we bobbed and played time arty, feeling cool |
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Just to live an artists diggin' the ravin' scene |
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Reading Kerouac and Ginsberg well deuced. |
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I was not academic, Art and English neat, |
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The history of mankind I liked that a bit. |
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And what was I to do ? The choices they were few, |
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I done right disgrace to the working classes |
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I done right disgrace to the working classes |
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I done right disgrace to the working classes |
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I done right disgrace to the working classes. |
