by Stan Rogers

I often take these night shift walks
\ \ \ \ when the foreman's not around
I turn my back on the cooling stacks
\ \ \ \ and make for open ground
Far out beyond the tankfarm fence
\ \ \ \ where the gas flare makes no sound
I forget the stink and I always think
\ \ \ \ back to that Eastern town.

I remember back six years ago,
\ \ \ \ this Western life I chose,
And every day, the news would say
\ \ \ \ some factory's going to close.
Well I could have stayed to take the dole,
\ \ \ \ but I'm not one of those.
I take nothing free, and that makes me
\ \ \ \ an idiot, I suppose.

Chorus:
I bid farewell to the eastern town
\ \ \ \ I never more will see
But work I must so I eat this dust
\ \ \ \ and breathe refinery,
Oh I miss the green and the woods and streams
\ \ \ \ and I don't like cowboy clothes
But I like being free and that makes me
\ \ \ \ an idiot I suppose.

So come all you fine young fellows
\ \ \ \ who've been beaten to the ground.
This western life's no paradise,
\ \ \ \ but its better than lying down.
Oh, the streets aren't clean, and there's nothing green,
\ \ \ \ and the hills are dirty brown
But the government dole will rot your soul
\ \ \ \ back there in your home town.

Chorus:
So bid farewell to the Eastern town
\ \ \ \ you never more will see.
There's self respect and a steady cheque
\ \ \ \ in this refinery.
You will miss the green and the woods and streams
\ \ \ \ and the dust will fill your nose.
But you'll be free, and just like me,
an idiot, I suppose.