(Crosby/McGuinn/Clark)
|
Eight miles high
|
And when you touch down
|
You'll find that it's stranger than known
|
|
Signs in the street
|
That say where you're going
|
Are somewhere, just being there own
|
|
Nowhere is their warmth to be found
|
Among those afraid of losing their ground
|
Rain, gray town, known for it's sound
|
In places, small faces unbound
|
|
'Round the squares, huddled in storms
|
Some laughing, some just shapeless forms
|
Sidewalks scenes and black limousines
|
Some living, some standing alone
|
|
-----------------
|
Eight Miles High
|
Golden Earring |