| There’s an old dirt road, just off route nine
|
| Fades into the lake, at the low water line
|
| Sometimes I wander down that road alone
|
| Remembering the town, that I once called home
|
| I grew up in the valley, every neighbor a friend
|
| Until the modern world started creeping in
|
| One day came the lawyers, with cash in hand
|
| They swore that our village would light up the land
|
| The dusky waters move cold and slow
|
| And the ghosts of a village still wander below
|
| Homesteads of families and friends forever more
|
| Haunting the valley below this sparkling shore
|
| Surrounding the valley was a painted red line
|
| Drawn by company men like marking a crime
|
| A silent reminder that all inside it must go
|
| Or be lost to the rising dead river’s flow
|
| Some folks took the money, started grinding gears
|
| While the rest of us held out, twenty odd years
|
| We watched our town, like a photograph fade
|
| As the company came, to take it all away
|
| They tore down the church, the schoolhouse burned
|
| They dug up the graves, the wheels of progress turned
|
| They got Dutchie’s store, and Haven’s pool hall
|
| When the dozers rolled, it shattered us all
|
| The dusky waters move cold and slow
|
| And the ghosts of a village still wander below
|
| Homesteads of families and friends forever more
|
| Haunting the valley below this sparkling shore
|
| Old May Savage stayed as long as she could
|
| Her house on the hill towered over the flood
|
| It rose up alone, in the dark of night
|
| Its face on the water, the cold moonlight
|
| I shake off the memories, on my lips a prayer
|
| Thanks for the grace, and the beauty down there
|
| And while the porch lights glow, all over the state
|
| There’s nothing but darkness, under the lake
|
| The dusky waters move cold and slow
|
| And the ghosts of a village still wander below
|
| Homesteads of families and friends forever more
|
| Haunting the valley below this sparkling shore
|
| They haunt the valley below this sparkling shore |