I can hear cars and Chopin in Hudson Falls.

Steve plays piano with his window open,
While Buds in cars, go round-a-bout hope’n,
Round-a-about hope’n, round-about hope’n,
To score a little rock with their cat calls,
To all the stray kittens born to grow claws,
Raised on the water between here-n-the falls.

But when Steve plays, I hear cars and Chopin.

I live in a hundred year old building,
It’s a Masonic Temple with rusty gilding,
With a leaky roof and paint done wilting.
Steve lives in a Victorian down the way,
With a window open I can hear him play,
For at least an hour or two every day.

And when he does, passing cars mix with Chopin.

Steve plays piano with a window open wide.
He says, “Music in a box can’t stay inside.
It’s not a thing, not one you can hide.”
He plays classical music over the cars,
And over the heads, of the only two bars,
Serving the water for shooting at stars.

But when Steve plays, I can hear…

I can hear Steve, but when I look down,
All I see are all the uniforms in town,
Riding circles to blue and red sounds;
Listening to the old broken records play:
“Listen up Bud. Wasn’t always this way.
Not since they built that there highway.

I can hear cars and Chopin in Hudson Falls?

My collar might be blue.” Said the man,
“But there’s one thing I do understand,
Lately’s been less cars and more Chopin.
And I ain’t saying it’s a shame or a pity,
But this here towns an All-American City,
And we ain’t too proud to be too pretty.”