| It’s Christmas Day in gay Paris
|
| Not so gay for Galen Z
|
| Sixteen hours in a sweaty kitchen
|
| For money that makes
|
| Minimum wage look good
|
| 6 a.m. on the subway
|
| Stop station, through the doorway
|
| Crowds of people
|
| Standing, yelling, screaming
|
| «What's going on? |
| I must be dreaming.»
|
| And the city forgets
|
| They didn’t even perceive
|
| And the trains keep blowing up, week after week
|
| Franzel’s traveled wide and far
|
| Back from the U.S.S.R
|
| Went there to pursue a lifelong calling
|
| You found only numb toes and helpless longing
|
| Now you’re back at home today
|
| Back in the old USA
|
| Scoop up handfuls of your native dust
|
| And cross the country in a Greyhound bus
|
| Another failed attempt
|
| It’s no use trying to pretend
|
| Now you’re right back where you started again
|
| I saw what’s wrong but I didn’t see how
|
| I saw, I saw
|
| We’re all grown up now
|
| Today’s your twentieth birthday
|
| Alone you walk the banks of Maine
|
| As time runs out to write the second verse of
|
| The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
|
| While you’re gone we’ll be here still
|
| Just beyond those distant hills
|
| Could be that you got the upper hand
|
| When you left this rustic never-never land
|
| And my breathing constricts
|
| I feel the walls closing in
|
| Could it be that finally we’re all shedding some skin |