Thursday, September 17, 2009

The End of the Story

I come from Minnesota
Where Minnehaha falls
Lakes freeze over in winter
As well as your eyelids
And stories of Paul and Babe
Fill young minds to overflowing
And where you grew up
In real neighborhoods and
Fannie Cohen would call your mother
Whenever you misbehaved
And where surprised New Yorkers would come
Wondering where the cows were
That they were told wandered the streets
And where Minnesotan is spoken
And is definitely distinct from Wiscan-zan or Io-way-an.

But I’m not going back
Because I found it is true
That the sun shines
Every day in California
And I have a bridge I’d like
To sell those New Yorkers.

1 comment: