When I was a young boy,
I went up to a hill.
And looked on to a spot that
A parking lot would fill.
I knew would have no say,
In wether it was done.
I looked on that spot
And I wish I had a gun.
When I was older
I took her to my hill.
The shopping mart security
Couldn't find us there.
It gave us a big thrill.
Long ago, the family farm,
Would've hidden us from the stores,
But yellow weeds & garbage heaps,
Hid us from the cars.
Now I sit on my hill,
In a basement for machine(?)
Rich folks laugh,
while the furnace burns,
As this cold air sits on me.
Can't see any blackbirds,
Can't see any clouds,
The weeds are gone...
And so is she.
Rich folks choke on a better mans smoke(?)
And I found a big(new?) hill.
