Driving through your childhood,
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and all the stories that youve told me since we first met.
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I get the feeling that you're forgetting to tell me what you're trying to forget.
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As we walk across the park on the iced over grass
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you start to talk about all the times when,
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and all the nights when, and the underneath us breaking like glass.
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This is the park where you fell asleep, and couldnt tell if it was a dream,
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when you opened your eyes and saw the man hiding in the trees.
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This is the street where the woman died,
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she had the problem of being too sweet,
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and how naive of me to think I couldnt get homesick in a week.
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All the sweethearts here litter the streets, the liberal and artistic minds.
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They walk hand and hand and kiss each others cheeks when they meet.
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They have got everything in common and the conversations never stop,
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they've all got the one about running all night from the campus cops.
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But behind the trees at the overpass-a girl was once crushed by a train,
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running to catch up with her friends, her life turned into one day.
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And the town carries on-and the town heals with time,
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everyone tries so hard to chase these ghosts from their mind.
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And how naive of me to think that i couldnt get homesick in a week.
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It starts to snow as the quartet down the street warms up the strings.
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I'm in the wrong hometown.
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It feels like its time to leave.
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I'm in the wrong hometown for Christmas Eve.
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Wrong Hometown
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| Small Brown Bike |
