A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Father’s a drinker
Rolls down the stairs
When I am with him
I could be anywhere
I will read every book of the world
Turning pages, Irish girl
In my tenement fairy-tale
He calls me prima donna
Still rubs my nose
Says I’ve got a bad, bad case of growing up
Is dream time closed?
The language of angels
Mussels and seashells
Is when Pappa sings old ballads
Scatters like petals
When we walk
There is Spring in my cheek
Mamma thinks that he’s a cheat
Every place has its dreamers
And everyone has a song
The ocean bed it changes
The winds blow seeds to sow
The tide of the Hudson is flowing
A tree in Brooklyn it grows
Alive, alive-oh
Alive, alive-oh
Crying‚ cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh' …