Historic

They call that building historic.

They call me old.

Two words. Same hundred years.

The brick on this corner has lines like mine  
Somebody polished her brass-plate sign  
They kept her windows, they praised her frame  
Then they turned to me and found another name

Same rain, same hundred winters through  
Same slow gold when the evening’s due  
So I laid my hand on that warm old stone  
And told her, sweetheart, you’re not alone

No plate, no praise, no city crown  
Just an old street and a step I found

I’m not old—I’m historic  
I’m not old—I’m historic  
A hundred years on this corner and she’s still worth the walk  
I’m not old, I’m historic

Historic, historic  
I’m not old, I’m historic

A woman in feathers came out of the shade  
A man in a hat that his father had made  
We never asked if the hour was right  
The stone kept the beat and the block held tight

Windows above us, wide and clear  
Everything standing had earned its year  
The floor of this city has held its ground  
So have the ones still moving around

No plate, no praise, no city crown  
Just an old street and a step I found

I’m not old-I’m historic  
I’m not old-I’m historic  
A hundred years on this corner and she’s still worth the walk  
I’m not old, I’m historic

Historic, historic  
I’m not old, I’m historic

They don’t call it damage when it’s on the stone  
They call it character, they call it home  
So lay that same word on this face of mine  
I’m not falling apart-I’m keeping time

We’re not old-we’re historic  
We’re not old-we’re historic  
A hundred years on this corner and we’re still worth the walk  
We’re not old, we’re historic

Historic, historic  
We’re not old, we’re historic  
Historic, historic  
We’re not old, we’re historic

Careful with her, they said. She’s historic.

They meant the building.