Creeping down on Franklin Street,
Bare feet on cold concrete,
Walking to the corner store
Where she recalls her own world war
She can hear the automobiles
Driving in her broken brain,
Headed for the memory
Of all these people gathered on a hill.
I think they stand there still,
Waiting for someone to carry them home,
And they always will.
(chorus)
She got in the automobile,
Driving to the place where the bombs went off.
Teacher says you oughta look down,
But you're lookin' out
At all the fires turn to ash
Songs they burn like paper trash
The flames that ate the phonograph
Are nipping at you now.
Drifting in a dreamless sleep,
Curled up on cold car seat,
Startled by an earthquake sound
She wakes to watch the moon fall down.
She can hear the automobiles
Driving up and down her brain
Headed for the memory
Of all these people gathered on a hill.
I think they wait there still
For their ride to carry them home,
And they always will.