| Up here on the hill it’s starting to rain
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| The sun’s disappearing through my windowpane
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| And everything’s still in my room
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| Then a trolley goes by with its clattering sound
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| Like a clock on the wall when the rain coming down
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| And somebody’s chattering way down the hall from my room
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| From my room, I see old town
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| Crook town, wop town, and spic town
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| Black town, shack town, and hick town, from my room
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| Looking down through the rain, I think the future’s going my way
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| And there’s a freeway coming soon right through this dirty old room
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| Can’t you see a 50-story building where a palm tree used to be?
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| Now I like a town that’s flat, I like a street that’s tame
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| You take out the trash, they all do the same
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| But get right back inside and remain until notified
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| In my town
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| I want a town that’s clean and I want a rule that’s maintained
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| If you’re brown, back down, if you’re black, get back
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| Better white than right, better dead than red
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| Better keep it contained in my town
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| Now, in my town, I’m the big cheese
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| Don’t like all those commie rats in the palm trees
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| Up there in Chavez Ravine
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| They come down here to City Hall
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| Creating a big scene, crying «foul ball»
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| We’ll put the head rat on the stand
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| «Are you now or have you ever been?»
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| Chief runs a make, director runs the names
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| I write the rules, I call the game
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| There’s the pitch, it’s good
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| There goes your old neighborhood
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| Tell the mayor duck out the back
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| Tell the monsignor keep the deal under his hat
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| Chavez Ravine plugged up, Bunker Hill ripped down
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| Cement mixers spreading the word around
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| This here is my town
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| It’s my town
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| Then the trolley stops by on its way down the hill
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| And somebody’s passing by my window sill
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| No shoes on the stairs and no knock at the door
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| Of my room, of my room, of my room
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| Why should I go down?
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| Why should I go down? |