I've not been home in many a year,
the highway's calling once more :
smokestacks in Cleveland, the river's
red roar, concrete ribbons on top of
the shore. How can I hear with all
noises beneath me, I'm riding,
I'm riding, once more...
Well the smokestacks in Cleveland
once made a fine sight, but they're
finished and gone now these days :
like the steel mills in Bethel, empty
and light, the wind blows through
nothing but echoes of fright. We are
emptied and finished, gutted and trite,
the smokestacks of Cleveland once more.