Pratt-Pullman: Hollywood's Backlot Ghost

Lyrics

[Intro]

Oh, machine-shop bays, you've held so many ghosts.

[Verse 1]
In your cavernous halls, built in 1904,
where Pullman porters once bent over iron rails,
now shadows of Katniss Everdeen flicker across the rusted beams.
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, 2014,
District 13's rebellion hiding in your depths,
Suzanne Collins' words painted on your brick walls.
You, with your exposed steel girders,
cradling the cameras that captured the uprising.

[Chorus]
Industrial cathedral, turned to stage,
whispers of Hollywood-South in your oily air.
Bird Box in 2018, blindfolded despair,
echoing through your broken windows.
Stranger Things, 2022, David Slade directing,
Hopper the stray cat wandering your concrete floors.
You hold them all, my silent witness.

[Verse 2]
Vintage cranes loom like forgotten sentinels,
Marvel heroes leaping from your tracks,
post-apocalyptic sets dressed in your decay.
Early morning, 5 AM, 55 degrees,
craft services coffee steaming in styrofoam,
glazed donuts from Atlanta shops,
crew footsteps reverberating off your walls.
Smell of rust and old machine oil,
clinging like a lover's breath.

[Bridge]

But what of the unnamed extras from Kirkwood streets?
The grips and gaffers, their hands on your levers,
stories lost in the credits' roll.
You remember them, don't you?
The noise complaints at dusk,
the traffic of trailers blocking Hosea L. Williams Drive.

[Verse 3]
Your bays, once mending rail cars,
now birthing scenes of dystopian dreams.
Baby Driver's chase in 2017,
screeching tires on your gravel lots.
You've become the backlot ghost,
haunting the lens with your history.

[Outro]

Rest now, my cathedral of steel,
in the twilight of Pratt-Pullman Yard.
The films end, but your echoes remain.