A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Olivia Chaney

Father’s a drinker

Rolls down the stairs

When I am with him

I could be anywhere

I will read every book of the world

Turning pages, Irish girl

In my tenement fairy-tale

He calls me prima donna

Still rubs my nose

Says I’ve got a bad, bad case of growing up

Is dream time closed?

The language of angels

Mussels and seashells

Is when Pappa sings old ballads

Scatters like petals

When we walk

There is Spring in my cheek

Mamma thinks that he’s a cheat

Every place has its dreamers

And everyone has a song

The ocean bed it changes

The winds blow seeds to sow

The tide of the Hudson is flowing

A tree in Brooklyn it grows

Alive, alive-oh

Alive, alive-oh

Crying‚ cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh' …