noone here believes that the earth is round
their world ends at the edge of town
the prairie burns last years 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 years punchline
this places is only in hour 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 years summer fallow
the city sheds its winter whites
and wheat fields become the skyline