I finally made it back
to my old hometown.
The shotgun shack
on the riverbank down
where the trout creek
drains the lakes up above.
Been gone so long I'm sick.
Man, how I used to love
fishin' with a fly
in the stream runnin' down
to the river runnin' by
my old hometown.

My friends are still there.
They lead a simple life.
Don't seem to have a care
beyond the house and the wife.
The huntin's fallen off.
Uncle Jack's getting old.
Picked up a wheeze and cough
from last years cold. 
The fish won't bite.
The water's runnin' brown
instead of clear and bright
in my old hometown.

Tore the old place down
and built it up again.
Five hundred acres
now a house on ten.
Damn pulp mill
stinks to high heaven.
The bar and grill's
now a Seven Eleven.
Gone the apple orchard,
so sweet and golden brown.
Gone, the mockingbird.
Somebody  shot 'em down.
Gone, the beaver dams.
Gone, the elk and deer.
The smokehouse hams
and the homemade beer.
Gone, the mill pond
where the two girls drowned
Where the rainbow spawned
and used to abound.
The sky turned black
and the rains came down
the day I turned my back
on my old hometown.

When I got back to the city
I was saddened by the sight.
For the homeless I felt pity.
Sickened by their plight.
Factories and cars
had poisoned sacred ground.
The sky, devoid of stars.
The air, a buck a pound.
A blind man could see
The writing on the wall.
It was clear as clear could be,
and half again as tall.
Draped across the city
like a bloddy wedding gown
and it'll show no pity
to my old hometown.