The Lonely Midwest

There's a white saddled horse, and not a cowboy in sight. No lasso to take him in, to his stable this night. There's a red bricked saloon, with no man to tend bar. Not an order to be taken, only a half smoked cigar. There's a bright yellow inn, each room is now untaken. no rest under moonlit skies, or mornings to slowly awaken. There's an old sepia Hoosegow with no judge or jury of law. Not a soul to be condemned, or a crowd to stand in awe. There's a faded teal gospel mill, with not one granger praying. This place welcomes silence, as the literature starts decaying. So the next time you are near, skip over our town on route five. For even though you are welcomed, You will never leave here alive.