Life was good in my old neighborhood.
We used to think we all had it made.
Weíd work on the line like our fathers in their time,
Retire, and relax in the shade.
I must have been crazy not to see
It was never going to be that way for me.
The suits all swore, ítil the day they closed the doors,
Our jobs were safe and the future still looked good.
Then the plant shut down, and the suits all left town,
And we just had to do the best we could.
I must have been crazy to stay
While all of my friends moved away.
Now itís getting tough for me to earn enough
To pay my familyís bills from day to day.
All the boarded-up stores—every year I see more—
Mean there isnít much to buy anyway.
I guess I must be crazy to still be here.
But Iíll make it out, youíll see. Maybe next year.
All of my working days are a meaningless haze,
And Friday nights I drink to excess.
Every week is the same, and I should feel some shame.
But Sunday itís all good when I confess.
Itís crazy how Iíve let the time slip by.
But does it really matter where you die?