The circling cones of bison hide
That made the village of the Sioux
Rose near as high, spread near as wide.
O little Western town, as you.
But small-town sky lines are all as great
And small-town air is clear and sweet
And small-town folk are friend and mate.
Not flitting shadows on the street.
No smoke of factories spoils;
No market roars with shouted bids
The small-town's finest fruit is souls;
Its prize commodity is kids. |
For while the city struts in pride
And trumpets far its loud renown.
The men who govern there, and guide
Are children of the little town.
That is the small-town's latent power ~~
Some name on its schoolroom page.
The future hero of the hour.
The future glory of an age.
It was always so, 't will always be~~
Small town, the great folk's starting place.
A small-town boy in Gallilee
Rerouted all the human race. |