On a lone and windy hilltop beneath a roof of tin In a little wallpapered bedroom I done my growin'. 'Twas there I dreamt my dreams, I hung my jeans And wandered through my puberty as all do. My mother was a tight nut bound up with false guilt Strapped up in her fearing wall she had built. The independent girl in a dark and cruel world She'd lost the way to say, "OK, now lay back". We disagreed on most things, I shouted peace and love The family is mankind, the symbol of the dove. She only saw the surface of things before her face But I was young and argued on for hours. My father he liked poetry, a scholar he might have made. Had nothing, born a poor boy barefoot and underpaid So the man worked with his hands up and down the land,
His dreams forgot he thought that I must follow. With his marks as worker's wisdom he'd read a thing or two He once had been a Mason but he never followed through. Always kind and thoughtful, smelling of mushy oil And he read me poetry of visionaries. I flunk my way to college, a looser kind of school But we bobbed and played time arty, feeling cool Just to live an artists diggin' the ravin' scene Reading Kerouac and Ginsberg well deuced. I was not academic, Art and English neat, The history of mankind I liked that a bit. And what was I to do ? The choices they were few, I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes.
On a lone and windy hilltop beneath a roof of tin In a little wallpapered bedroom I done my growin'. 'Twas there I dreamt my dreams, I hung my jeans And wandered through my puberty as all do. My mother was a tight nut bound up with false guilt Strapped up in her fearing wall she had built. The independent girl in a dark and cruel world She'd lost the way to say, "OK, now lay back". We disagreed on most things, I shouted peace and love The family is mankind, the symbol of the dove. She only saw the surface of things before her face But I was young and argued on for hours. My father he liked poetry, a scholar he might have made. Had nothing, born a poor boy barefoot and underpaid So the man worked with his hands up and down the land,
His dreams forgot he thought that I must follow. With his marks as worker's wisdom he'd read a thing or two He once had been a Mason but he never followed through. Always kind and thoughtful, smelling of mushy oil And he read me poetry of visionaries. I flunk my way to college, a looser kind of school But we bobbed and played time arty, feeling cool Just to live an artists diggin' the ravin' scene Reading Kerouac and Ginsberg well deuced. I was not academic, Art and English neat, The history of mankind I liked that a bit. And what was I to do ? The choices they were few, I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes I done right disgrace to the working classes.
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