Was eight years old, running with a dime in my hand
into the bus stop to pick up a paper
for my old man
I'd sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through town
he'd tousle my hair, say son take a good look around
this is your hometown

In `65 tension was running high at my high school
there was a lot of fights between black and white
there was nothing you could do
two cars at a light on a Saturday night in the back seat there was a gun
words were passed in a shotgun blast
troubled times had come
to my hometown

Now Main Street's whitewashed windows and vacant stores
seems like there ain't nobody wants to come down here no more
they're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
foreman says these jobs are going boys and they ain't coming back
to your hometown

Last night me and Kate we laid in bed
talking about getting out
packing up our bags, maybe heading south
I'm thirty-five, I got a boy of my own now
last night I set him up behind the wheel and said son take a good look around
this is your hometown

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