I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand. Into the bus stop. To pick up a paper for my old man. I'd sit on his lap in that big old Buick and. Steer as we drove through town. He'd tousle my hari and say son take a. good look around this is your hometown. This is your hometown. This is your hometown. This is your hometown. In '65 tension was running high at my high school. There was a lot of fights between the black and white. There was nothing you could do. Two cars at light on a Saturday night. In the back seat there wasa gun. Words were passed in a shotgun blast. Troubled times had come to my hometown. My hometown. My hometown. My hometown. Now Main Street's whitewashed windows and vacant stores. Seems like there ain't nobody. Wants to come down here no more. They're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks. Foreman says these jobs are going boys. And they ain't coming back to your hometown. Your hometown. Your hometown. Your hometown. Last night me and Kate we laid in bed talking about getting out. Packing up our bags and maybe heading south. I'm 35 we got a boy of our own now. Last night I sat him up behind the wheel. And said son take a goold look around. This is your hometown.