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On a lone and windy hilltop beneath a roof of tin In a little wallpapered bedroom I done my growin'. 'Twas there I dreamt my dreams, there I hung my jeans And wandered through puberty as all do. My mother was a tight knot bound up with false guilt Strapped up in her fearing wall she had built. An independent girl in a dark and cruel world She'd lost the way to say, "OK, now lay back". We disagreed on most things, I shouted peace and love The family of mankind, the symbol of the dove. She only saw the surface of things before her face But I was young and argued on for hours. My father he liked poetry, a scholar he might have made. Had he not been born a poor boy, barefoot and underpaid So the man worked with his hands up and down the land, His dream forgot, he thought that I must follow. With his Marxist worker's wisdom he'd read a thing or two He once had been a Mason but he never followed through. Always kind and thoughtful, smelling of machine oil And he read me poetry of visionaries. I flunked my way to college, a looser kind of school Bought me borrowed play time, arty, feeling cool Just to live an artist, diggin' the ravin' scene Reading Kerouac and Ginsberg well juiced. I was not academic, Art and English Lit, The history of mankind I liked that a bit. And what was I to do? The choices they were few, A down right disgrace to the working classes A down right disgrace to the working classes A down right disgrace to the working classes A down right disgrace to the working classes