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, steer as we drove through town

Tousle my hair, say, "Son, take a good look around"

In '65 tension was running high at my high school

Was a lot of fights 'tween the black and white, there was nothing you could do

Two cars at a light on a Saturday night, in the backseat there was a gun

Words were passed, shotgun blast, troubled times had come

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 'cross the railroad tracks

Foreman says, "These jobs are going, boys, and they ain't coming back"

Your hometown

Last night me and Kate, we laid in bed talking 'bout getting out

Packing up our bags, 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 good look around"