When the flowers bloom early, then whither and die young, they are licked by the devil's split tongue,
Oh, the sins of our fathers have beaten us numb on these tree-lined, white-picket lawns, on these golden streets of Rome.
It's a portrait of beauty, perfection and grace,
Man has made God's Heaven his own,
And, to keep it preserved in its intended state, they make sacrifices each dawn on these scarlet streets of Rome.
The river runs far from the path they would take you, far from these hands that would break you,
Oh, river run.
Underneath each finely manicured yard lies a stripped down bag of bones,
And the gold they extract, they will only give back to them goons in charge of all...all them gold-lined streets of Rome.
The river runs far from the path they would lead you, far from the gangsters who bleed you,
Oh, river run.
They had sold you, forsaken your childish dreams...but your heart was a vagabond, so you touched both them boot-heels onto their pavement, and made your break at dawn from these golden streets of Rome.
