| Sailing down my dirty stream
|
| Still I love it and I’ll keep the dream
|
| That some day, though maybe not this year
|
| My Hudson River will once again run clear
|
| It starts high in the mountains of the north
|
| Crystal clear and icy trickles forth
|
| With just a few floating wrappers of chewing gum
|
| Dropped by some hikers to warn of things to come
|
| At Glens Falls, five thousand honest hands
|
| Work at the consolidated paper plant
|
| Five million gallons of waste a day
|
| Why should we do it any other way?
|
| Down the valley one million toilet chains
|
| Find my Hudson so convenient place to drain
|
| And each little city says, «Who, me?
|
| Do you think that sewage plants come free?»
|
| Out in the ocean they say the water’s clear
|
| But I live right at Beacon here
|
| Half way between the mountains and sea
|
| Tacking to and fro, this thought returns to me
|
| Well it’s Sailing up my dirty stream
|
| Still I love it and I’ll dream
|
| That some day, though maybe not this year
|
| My Hudson and my country will run clear |