Ireland is not the true Emerald Isle
nor is Greenland very green,
and perhaps when you've climbed Kentucky's mountains,
you'll get a glimpse of what I mean.
Those rolling hills and serpentine slopes
and copper waters with soapy dreams
will hopefully soon begin to show
just a glimpse of what I mean:
Those farmhouses do
stagger and sway,
bowing in the midsummer breeze,
as fireflies surround the fields,
bending sunflowers at their knees.
Those trailer-houses do
rust and age
and hide beneath dirt and sand,
but uncut grass of the purest green
climbs high to join in brotherly hands.
Those highways do
litter open space,
but the beauty lies in between:
perhaps once you've traveled every inch,
you'll finally know what I mean.