There's a tiny little village
In the state I call my own,
That's hard to find upon the map,
But Its name to me means "Home".

The population's not so great
But I love them, one and all.
Each name's a happy memory
Of those days beyond recall.

Now I've met with people
From Norway and from Spain,
From our sunny California
and the rock-bound Coast of Maine.

But when they start to spouting
'Bout their homeland great or small,
I tell my views in accents loud
And dominate them all.

"You may have your old Chicago
With its gunmen and its booze.
Where gangsters with machine guns:,
Leave you shaking in your shoes'."

"You may have your California
Where the climate is just right",
Where you swelter in the daytime
And freeze to death at night.

"You may have your Western prairies,
Where real 'he-men are made---
Where the diamond rattlers flourish
Beneath the cactus' shade--.

But I'll choose old Lacota-
-With fragrant orchards bound--
Among its trees and birds and bees
True happiness is found.

Where everyone sees everyone-
-And no matter who you meet,
It's "Howdy Bill" or "How's the folks?"
As you go down the street.

Where everyone knows everyone
And shares their grief and joys,
Where Mothers search down Spicebush Creek
For their water loving(?) boys.

Where around the stove in Simpson's store,
Many battles fierce are fought---
And weird and wondrous are the tales of fish
they almost caught.

Where you hear children playing
"London Bridge is falling down--"
Back where life is worth the living:
I mean--My old home town.