Noone here believes that the earth is round Their world ends at the edge of town The prairie burns last year's harvest clean And wheat fields become the skyline
This city gets so quiet sometimes It's deathly quiet here on some nights We hurry up to wait on trains We forget just why we came
Away from here I'll be moving on now Away from here Far away We are last year's fashions I am next year's punchline This place is only in our heads I'm not sure just where it ends I'm not sure where I begin
The fields fold back their sheets of snow Untuck a bed of last year's summer fallow The city sheds it's winter whites And wheat fields become the skyline
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