Where the big sky touches the low green hills like a painter’s finished canvas,
And the dark-starred firmament canopies the crisp cool nighttime hours,
The rivers flow and the gentle wind blows on the fields made out of hay.
Nature rests as the horses play and the bison and bulls graze grass.
Then comes the crowds and the city lights and the Old West dies away,
The big gold arches and the tourist shops and the canvas washed away,
The natives wear suits and the great elks flee as the motels multiply.
A new day dawns, for better or for worse, and it’s here to stay for a while.
On the busy streets the jovial crowds drink at the newly minted bars,
Only a few will ask or consider at all what was lost and gone away.
The day is passed and the clock has ticked and the memory starts to fade,
And only a few will ask or consider at all what was lost and gone away.