There's a tiny little village 
                         In the state I call my own, 
                     That's hard to find upon the map, 
                    But Its name to me means "Home". 

                        The population's not so great 
                        But I love them, one and all. 
                       Each name's a happy memory 
                        Of those days beyond recall. 

                          Now I've met with people 
                        From Norway and from Spain, 
                         From our sunny California 
                    and the rock-bound Coast of Maine. 

                       But when they start to spouting 
                    'Bout their homeland great or small, 
                       I tell my views in accents loud 
                          And dominate them all. 

                      "You may have your old Chicago 
                       With its gunmen and its booze. 
                    Where gangsters with machine guns:, 
                     Leave you shaking in your shoes'." 

                       "You may have your California 
                      Where the climate is just right", 
                      Where you swelter in the daytime 
                        And freeze to death at night. 

                   "You may have your Western prairies, 
                      Where real 'he-men  are made--- 
                     Where the diamond rattlers flourish 
                        Beneath the cactus' shade--. 

                         But I'll choose old Lacota- 
                      -With fragrant orchards bound-- 
                     Among its trees and birds and bees 
                          True happiness is found. 

                       Where everyone sees everyone- 
                       -And no matter who you meet, 
                  It's "Howdy Bill" or "How's the folks?" 
                          As you go down the street. 

                      Where everyone knows everyone 
                       And shares their grief and joys, 
                Where Mothers search down Spicebush Creek 
                       For their water loving(?) boys. 

                 Where around the stove in Simpson's store, 
                      Many battles fierce are fought--- 
                And weird and wondrous are the tales of fish 
                            they almost caught. 

                      Where you hear children playing 
                      "London Bridge is falling down--" 
                     Back where life is worth the living: 
                        I mean--My old home town.