If the grey morning finds you, Strange and cold in some great Northern city, Shoes slick and black in the slush, The tires hushing spray, Please think upon those slow days In the long green arms of the river.

If, at the end of your workday, You find upon your tongue a barren dialect, And the sheetrocked boxes you increasingly call home, Feel, somehow, both dead and new. Chase the sweet stink of downtown, and let spill forth The honeyed words of your raising. May we all grow old and free, And wander home again.

If homeward odes take wing from your lips To flutter down dead onto a plywood stage, And the red-clay soil you swore you’d die for Hasn’t touched your feet in weeks, Repent of your pride and your worry. Remember to ride, like your home folks said. May we all grow old and free, And wander home again.