Between two burns on the map Was
a hollow-headed snake. The
burrs were hills, the snake was a stream, And
the hollow head was a lake.
And
the dot in front of a name Was
what should be a town. And
there might be a house we could buy For
only a dollar down.
With
two wheels low in the ditch We
left our boiling car And
knocked at the door of a house we found, And
there today we are.
It
is turning three hundred years On
our cisatlantic shore For
family after family name. We’ll
make it three hundred more
For
our name farming here, Aloof
yet not aloof, Enriching
soil and increasing stock, Repairing
fence and roof;
A
hundred thousand days Of
front-page paper events, A
half a dozen major wars, And forty-five presidents. |
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