rock classic rock 70s epic singer-songwriter Jungleland by Bruce Springsteen from album Born to Run
Duration : 9 minutes & 55 seconds.
Listener : 185548 peoples.
Played : 960455 times and counting.
The rangers had a homecoming
In Harlem late last night
And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine
Over the Jersey state line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The Rat pulls into town, rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance and disappear down Flamingo Lane
Well, the Maximum Lawman run down Flamingo
Chasing the Rat and the barefoot girl
And the kids around here look just like shadows
Always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails
Tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand
Down in Jungleland
The midnight gangs assembled
And picked a rendezvous for the night
They'll meet 'neath that giant Exxon sign
That brings this fair city light
Man, there's an opera out on the Turnpike
There's a ballet being fought out in the alley
Until the local cop's cherry top
Rips this holy night
The street's alive as secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanished unseen
Kids flash guitars just like switchblades
Hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted
Explode into rock 'n' roll bands
That faced off against each other out in the street
Down in Jungleland
In the parking lot
The visionaries dress in the latest rage
Inside, the backstreet girls
Are dancing to the records that the DJ plays
Lonely hearted lovers struggle in dark corners
Desperate as the night moves on
With just one look and a whisper
They're gone
Beneath the city, two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender
In a bedroom locked, in whispers of soft
Refusal, and then surrender
In the tunnels uptown,
The Rat's own dream guns him down
The shots echo down them hallways in the night
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light
Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz
Between what's flesh and what's fantasy
And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland
