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