Down where the cold pipes leak and sweat
In a corner no one's visited yet
A wooden box with a rusted hinge
Where the damp wall starts to cringe
Four steel strings turned a dirty grey
Hidden from the light of day
Oh, the basement bow is sleeping deep
While the city streets never sleep
A golden sound turned into rust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
The jazz club shakes the ceiling beam
While the liquor pours in a steady stream
Above the floor the horns start to blow
But the violin stays down low
It remembers a hand and a velvet case
Now it's just a forgotten place
Oh, the basement bow is sleeping deep
While the city streets never sleep
A golden sound turned into rust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
A taxi driver knows the windy bend
Where the alleyways and the gutters end
He sees the steam rise from the sewer grate
While the old instrument meets its fate
The varnish peels like a winter skin
Letting all the cellar moisture in
Oh, the basement bow is sleeping deep
While the city streets never sleep
A golden sound turned into rust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
No one plays a song for the lonely wood
If they found it they would if they could
But the lock is jammed and the key is gone
While the Chicago wind carries on
Just a relic of a better beat
Buried under the concrete street
Oh, the basement bow is sleeping deep
While the city streets never sleep
A golden sound turned into rust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
Sinking slow into the basement dust
Just a piece of wood.
Right under the street. Sinking slow.
Sinking slow.
