OUR HOME TOWN
There is a town where the road goes round
and the round road goes nowhere
there is no end.
And the beginning depends
on the end that just isn't there.
Somehow we got the license to drive this car.
And it comes with the permit for just how far.
On this island town
no straight roads are found
for a chord would have an end.
And cut in two like pie the glue
on the road that never ends.
We need not argue how this came about.
We need to recognize without a doubt.
The houses face in to a central pin
a church with a steeple high.
The wharfs face out
like radii no doubt
to measure the days go by.
We have the license to drive the car.
And we are judge and jury for just how far.
They come and go with the tide's ebb and flow
in their boats to fish on the sea.
Yet as time spins around
most will be found
on the road that never ends.