Atlantic City by the cold grey sea I hear a voice crying, Daddy, I always think its for me, But its only the silence in the buttermilk hills that call. Every new messenger brings evil report Bout armies on the march and time that is short And famines and earthquakes and hatred written upon walls. Would I have married her? I dont know, I suppose. She had bells in her braids and they hung to her toes But I kept hearing my name and I had to be movin on. I saw screws break loose, saw the devil pound tin, I saw a house in the country being torn from within. I heard my ancestors calling from the land far beyond. And them Caribbean winds still blow from Nassau to Mexico Fanning the flames in the furnace of desire And them distant ships of liberty on them iron waves so bold and free, Bringing everything thats near to me nearer to the fire.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Oct 2013 11:35:02 +0000
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