| Pregnant teens on the Barton street bus
|
| Hard-up people living off crust
|
| And thereЂ™s a beat-up town car — itЂ™s starting to ruse
|
| Hard soles are kicking up dust
|
| Half a million people living in the corpse of the brown brick 50Ђ™s
|
| To the north, all the small town outcasts are now big city bourgeoisie
|
| All the boys in the halfway houses
|
| Wave to the girls of Emerald Street
|
| Our calloused fingers, blood red on the brick — but we hold on WeЂ™ll never falter, though they want us to slip — we hold on The desperate, downtown stealing bikes
|
| Drunks in the village are picking fights
|
| So, police like the streets to read them their rights
|
| No controlling hot summer nights
|
| The sun goes down on the edge of town, at the end of everyday
|
| We sit and watch the stacks, on fire, to the east across the bay
|
| All the boys in the halfway houses
|
| Wave to the girls of Emerald Street
|
| Our calloused fingers, blood red on the brick — but we hold on WeЂ™ll never falter, though they want us to slip — we hold on ThereЂ™s something in the church belfry
|
| On the corner of Victoria and king
|
| And it screams out into the night
|
| It sings this cityЂ™s plight
|
| All the boys in the halfway houses
|
| Wave to the girls of Emerald Street
|
| Our calloused fingers, blood red on the brick — but we hold on WeЂ™ll never falter, though they want us to slip — we hold on |