The Lofts at Fulton Bag: From Loom to Living

Lyrics

A big dead elephant, sleeping in the valley.
Bricks were tired, windows blind.
Just a ghost on Carroll Street.
A memory left behind.

Then March twenty-fourth, nineteen ninety-nine.
The sky turned orange, a terrible sign.
Acrid smoke on the Cabbagetown air,
Burning timber, a final prayer.
The old heart stopped, right then and there.

From the ashes, from the dust!
They raised the beams and broke the rust.
Where the looms once hummed a metal song,
Now the morning light comes flooding strong.
This ain't the mill your grandpa knew,
It's from loom to living, fresh and new!
Yeah, the Fulton Bag is breathing again!

Tom Macauley saw the bones, saw the frame.
Heard a different future call its name.
The jackhammers roared, the saws all whined,
A brand new rhythm for a new time.
Larry Lord, he drew the lines,
Opened up the windows, let the sun shine.

From the ashes, from the dust!
They raised the beams and broke the rust.
Where the looms once hummed a metal song,
Now the morning light comes flooding strong.
This ain't the mill your grandpa knew,
It's from loom to living, fresh and new!
Yeah, The Stacks are standing, breathing again!

Sometimes at night, you can feel it in the floor,
In the heavy timber by my front door.
A quiet echo, a steady, ghostly beat...
The ghosts of a thousand tired, shuffling feet.
They found an old gear, a bobbin in the wall,
Silent witnesses to the rise and fall.
Now we're just another layer in the story.

Now my coffee's brewing, sun's in the arch.
Looking out over the city's forward march.
The old water tower, it watches still.
On the Cabbagetown side of the hill.
The elephant's awake... breathing still...
From loom to living...
Yeah, it's breathing still...