G ... D
G ... D
C ... D
C ... D ... G
Em . . . . . . . Am
Look at that boy
Em . . . . . . . . . . . . Am
Running from the store
Em . . . . . . . . . .Am
Face twisted in fright
Em . . . . . . . . . . . . . Am
Screaming helpless fears
Em . . . . . . . . . . D . . . . . . . . .G
To friends who cannot understand
Em . . . . . . . . . .Am
Look at that woman
Em . . . . . . . . . .Am
Crazed eyes a glistening
Em . . . . . . . . . . . Am
Wrapped up in a garland
Em . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Am
With an otter’s tail and head
Em . . . . . . . . D . . . . . . . G
Yelling at no one about nothing
<chorus start>
G . . . . . . . . . D
Green lights, red lights,
G . . . . . . . . . . D
Flashing lights
. . . . . . . .C . . . . . . .D
And the cars keep rolling by
C . . . . . . . . . . . . . .D . . . . . . . G
Moving their little worlds on through
<chorus end>
Look at the garbage
Strewn on the streets
By modern, crisp buildings
All steel-boarded and shut
And the old men keep talking to themselves
Look at the ruble
From the fierce breaking balls
Listen to the stillness
Of the paper swirling wind
As it echoes through used-to-be lots
<chorus>
Look at the curled men
On benches worn sleep thin
Their clothes are torn and wasted
Their faces stunned in stench
Wondering what questions to ask
Look at the theater
See superman sing and dance
To colored boys and fat ladies
Among leftover cups and trash
And they cheer and applaud his triumphs
<chorus>
Look at the air
Hanging all around
It’s hot and dank and fumed
And it closes in this town
Framing carefree lovers at play
Look at the burned people
Staggering while they walk
On streets rubbed with leather
Of their past, pretty shoes
Now returning some to their soles
<chorus>
Listen to the sirens
Screaming through the streets
Somehow, always distant
Always, somewhere else
Crying for the victims of despair
See the sculptured sidewalk
It’s how we renovate decay
It outlines the new monument
To America’s old, cracked bell
But it’s the same to the rat walking by
<chorus>
Look at the women
Rolled and broken toothed
Living from shopping bags
In their filthy, stringed hair
Wandering at peace with something
See the pretty, bright posters
Splashing colors on the corner
Announcing a dedication
To the arts, and to the crafts
As panic consumes your mind
And you begin to run
To the sanctity of hotel
You spill your clothes on the floor
And jump into the shower
But, the city dirt will not wash away.
<chorus>
<chorus>
C . . . . . . . . . . . . . .D . . . . . . . G
James K. Richardson