It was time when we lived on Pacific Street
A place in Brooklyn, New York where we had to retreat
A two family brownstone that was very hot in the summer
The nights were unbeatable where you couldn’t even slumber
Our only escape was Coney Island where one could catch a breeze
It was the whispers of air and feeling at ease
A night to feel relaxed
The thought of hot making one perplexed
The summers I will never forget
It was those nights that I regret
Even with the fans you couldn’t cool off
The hot house being no mystery of its own
It is my history and I am letting it be known.