My hometown
I was eight years old and running with a dime in my handInto the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old manI'd sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through townHe'd tousle my hair and say son take a good look around this is your hometownThis is your hometownThis is your hometownThis is your hometown
In '65 tension was running high at my high schoolThere was a lot of fights between the black and whiteThere was nothing you could doTwo cars at a light on a Saturday night, in the back seat there was a gunWords were passed in a shotgun blastTroubled times had come, to my hometownMy hometownMy hometownMy hometown
Now Main Street's whitewashed windows and vacant storesSeems like there ain't nobody wants to come down here no moreThey're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracksForeman says these jobs are going boys and they ain't coming back to your hometownYour hometownYour hometownYour hometown
Last night me and Kate we laid in bedtalking about getting outPacking up our bags maybe heading southI'm thirty-five, we got a boy of our own nowLast night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good look around, this is your hometown