| Bless the child of a working man
|
| She knows too soon who she is
|
| And bless the hands of a working man
|
| He knows his soul is his
|
| So it goes like it goes
|
| Like the river flows
|
| And time keeps rolling on
|
| And maybe what’s good
|
| Gets a little bit better
|
| And maybe what’s bad gets gone
|
| He left a man in New York City
|
| She left a home in New Orleans
|
| They travelled on to California
|
| Sweet dreams, children
|
| Sweet dreams
|
| They met a in Greyhound station
|
| When she kicked the cigarette machine
|
| And woke him up hard from his nap beside it
|
| Woke him up hard from his sweet dreams
|
| He talked about his suggar daddies
|
| She talked about her mean Marine
|
| The settled down in seats adjoining
|
| Sharing sweet dreams, children
|
| Sweet dreams
|
| There’s no man to sell your heart to
|
| When you’re dancing across the TV screens
|
| No husband to beat you when you’re in the movies
|
| Just sweet dreams, children
|
| Sweet dreams
|
| Run away to another skin
|
| A tough one
|
| A pretty one
|
| That won’t let the badness in
|
| Now he’s keeping house for a big producer
|
| Who pays for the classes and the limousines |
| And she’s passed out in a bar with whiskey
|
| Dreaming sweet dreams
|
| Still dreaming sweet dreams
|
| Run away to another skin
|
| A tough one, a pretty one
|
| That won’t let the sadness in
|
| Won’t let the madness in
|
| There is a sidewalk in California
|
| Where they put the stars right at your feet
|
| And people delight in stepping on them |