| Creeping down on Franklin Street
|
| Bare feet on cold concrete
|
| Walking to the corner stone
|
| Where she recalls her own world war
|
| She can hear the automobile
|
| Driving in the frozen rain
|
| Headed for the memory of all these people
|
| Gathered on a hill
|
| Oh I think they stand there still
|
| Waiting for someone to carry them home
|
| And they always will
|
| She got in the automobile
|
| Driving to the place where the bombs went off
|
| Teacher says you ought to look down
|
| But you’re looking out
|
| At all the fire’s turned to ash
|
| Songs have burned like paper trash
|
| The flames that ate the phonograph
|
| Are nipping at you now
|
| Drifting in a dreamless sleep
|
| Curled up on a cold car seat
|
| Startled by an earthquake sound
|
| She wakes to watch the moon fall down
|
| She got in the automobile
|
| Driving in the frozen rain
|
| Headed for the memory of all these people
|
| Gathered on a hill
|
| I think they stand there still
|
| Waiting for someone to carry them home
|
| And they always will
|
| She got in the automobile
|
| Driving to the place where the bombs went off
|
| Teacher says you ought to look down
|
| But you’re looking out
|
| At all the fire’s turned to ash
|
| Songs have burned like paper trash
|
| The flames that ate the phonograph
|
| Are nipping at you now
|
| She got in the automobile
|
| Driving to the place where the bombs went off
|
| Teacher says you ought to look down
|
| But you’re looking out
|
| At all the fire’s turned to ash
|
| Songs have burned like paper trash
|
| The flames that ate the phonograph
|
| Are nipping at you now
|
| She got in the automobile
|
| Driving to the place where the bombs went off
|
| Teacher says you ought to look down
|
| But you’re looking out
|
| At all the fire’s turned to ash
|
| Songs have burned like paper trash
|
| The flames that ate the phonograph
|
| Are nipping at you now |