If you drive out through the farmland far enough,
eventually you'll come to the villages of four-bedroom houses,
and this is where I'm from.

At night, sometimes, while I'm back visiting you can hear me say,
"O Birdland, my how you've grown. But all the while
all the places that line my memories remain."

Now us children are spread from shore to shore,
on different land carrying different flags.
Now Birdland, waiting, grows on;
stretching to reach for the lost and the wandering,
shifting, unsure of what is missing.

"O Birdland all the while, all the houses
that inhabit our past remain."