Who will walk the old streets today?
None who remember the old days, the old ways
Who can recall the men who fought
Here in these very streets and, belly-to-the-dirt in France
Who can remember the women whom they loved?
Those who refreshed themselves with cold water
And knew to keep their backs straight and smile
Theirs was the true power.
Everyone today is just passing through
They sense no limits, yet they are bound to their own prisons
They want no part of this turf, why fight for it, or anything else
Instead of something small
They have nothing at all
Who will walk the old streets tonight
Those brick lanes where the old hotels stood
Those wooden frames with long porches on the second floors
Dollar a night. Who stayed there then? What could have brought them here?
Beside them, the old clubs and joints, not music, but beer and pool
And on the riverbank stands of giant hemlock and pine
Ancient, here before the white man
Their precious, light scents filter into the humid air
Lights on the river late at night, white and blue
And the two kids who bring the morning papers on their bicycles
And fog in the hollows above and the silhouette of one man who staggers home
On the other side of town the little houses are still lit up
No one can sleep on these hot summer nights
Old men in undershirts and work pants smoke hand-rolled cigarettes
And women clip laundry to the lines against the dark sky.