Текст: Cross Canadian Ragweed. Brooklyn Kid.

Well, I gotta friend that lives south of town.
Loves to sit and burn one down.
Spin some vinyl on his stereo.
Every now and then he speaks of war:
One tour of duty on a foreign shore.
Fightin' for his way home.
Yeah. fightin' for his way home.

Returnin' home to his native land,
Left New York for Texas man.
Quieter times were in his cards.
He met a girl, she met a man:
Dropped to his knees and he took her hand:
A simple life ain't that hard.
No, a simple life ain't all that hard.

A new generation on the ground.
Nothin' in the world could bring him down,
Flyin' like he had wings.
Several years came and went,
Not one of them was poorly spent,
A good man's life he was chiselin'.
Yeah, a good man's life he was chiselin'.

Reflecting on the Viet-Cong,
Uncle John's Band and a Dylan song,
Smellin' like it's supper time.
You know, it brought a tear to his eye,
The day that Jerry Garcia died.
He said he was the genius of his time.
Yeah, A Friend of the Devil is a Friend of Mine.

Don't try to find it, make the time,
A couple of joints and a bottle of wine.
You'll be glad that you did.
With the Grateful Dead spinnin' round,
Kick your feet back and be astound,
By the life of the Brooklyn kid.

Da da da dad da da.
Da da da dad da da