On the hill where Custer was,
|
Making his last stand,
|
With the Indians all around,
|
And his gun in his hand.
|
|
Such a wind was blowing that day,
|
Through the battleground,
|
I could feel it in my hair,
|
As I turned towards downtown.
|
|
Weaving through the buildings,
|
Cutting though the streets,
|
Slicing through the culture,
|
Piling on the weeks.
|
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home.
|
|
Dropping in on you my friend,
|
Is just like old times,
|
Said the fool who signed the paper,
|
To assorted slimes.
|
|
It's hard to get blood from a stone
|
But for you I'll give it a try,
|
To provide your accomodations,
|
And leave you satisfied.
|
|
You'd think it was easy,
|
To give your life away,
|
To not have to live up to,
|
The promises you made.
|
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home.
|
|
Elusively she cut the phone,
|
Moved from cell to cell,
|
Really looking remarkable,
|
And obviously doing well.
|
|
She made a turn on a wooden bridge,
|
Into the battleground,
|
With a thousand warriors on the ridge,
|
She tried to turn her radio down.
|
|
Battle drums were pounding,
|
All around her car,
|
She saw her clothes were changing,
|
Into sky and stars.
|
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home, I'm going home.
|
Going home.
|
|
-----------------
|
Goin' Home
|
| Neil Young |
