This mill is rusty,
The gears will not run.
The little creek is dried up.
No work can be done.
The grain has long been dead,
The wheel is worn away.
The winds blow too harshly
Throughout the night and day.
This town is old,
The streets each cracked and tore.
The factories are moving out,
The people here are poor.
These houses all need painting,
Each is gray with age.
Some historian is only waiting
To write the final page.
This boy is man,
Now bent and old and tired.
Who’s home is in this town.
It was where he was sired.
These legs go shaky when he stands,
There is palsy in these hands.
When he dies and is buried,
He asks, “bury me on these lands.”
This land is cold.
Fall leaves have all but fell.
We’re in for a bitter winter
Is what the almanacs foretell.
This mill is rusty,
This town, this man, this day is gray,
But it is here he was born
And it is here he will stay.
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