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.