Come an gather round friends
And I’ll tell ya a tale
Of when the red iron ore pits ran a-plenty
But the cardboard filled windows
And old men on the benches
Tell you now that the whole town is empty
In the north end of town
My own children are grown
Well I was raised on the other
In the wee hours of youth
My mother took sick
And I was brought up by my brother
Bob Dylan Newport, 1963