The Sound of Moving

This hellhole's alive with the sound of moving.
Thousands are singing: "Let's get out of here!"
This dying hellhole prompts folks to be moving.
They say it won't come back, if at all, for years.

Drive your car, catch the train, take a big silver bird,
Flying up, over the burning trees.
It's hard to stay here when your job prospects die
And the church soup kitchen's full of fleas.

Your boss cooks the books; your firm trips and it falls.
You get stoned and and want to get away.
Then you drink through the night
To drown out the curs that bark and bay.

Over the east hills, you must then go only
A few hundred miles, and you've reached the door
To the heartland, yes,
Where you might be moving.
And you'll sing once more.