My small town home,

With dirt bikes racing along the road,

Less than five streets, one highway passing through,

No parking meters, the stop signs are new.

The mountains surround our little land.

Home-made hot tubs out of old metal and fire,

BB guns shoot Pilsner cans, we climb over barbed wire,

Under the bridge, behind the church, dumpsters and playgrounds,

Riding our bikes around like clowns.

Population of 900.

In summer it’s too hot, winter’s too cold,

Everyone’s either too young, or too old.

Springtime comes, the fields are full,

Barrel racing, rodeo, stampede of bull.

May’s long weekend brings mud bogging.

Population of 900.