On the rust stained bridge marked '65
When the first bit of the road was just paved
Boring, the brook, and just barely alive
O Lord will we ever be saved?
At the shop where we’d stop for an old tin of drink
And sit on the step I would stare
At the boats through the fog, and I’d try hard to think
Of three good reasons to stay here
Throwing rocks at the houses that scattered the hill
And painted dark ochre and white
With nothing but time, and time for to kill
I'd sleep under the bridge the whole night
'Neath the bridge I'd reread the old dirty poems
Etched into the side of the cave
If I’d a ship on the brook, I could find me a home
O Lord, will I ever be saved?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem