The L.O.Z.,
The place to be,
The party town of Missouri,
Is what I call home.

The hills of the Ozarks
House every known allergen, as
Well as families that are cooking
Something to be paranoid about.

This man made body of
Water holds the rumors of
Dead bodies and piranhas
That parents tell as wives tales.

The forever changing lanes
Of highway will lead you
To the same place; once
You're here, you'll never leave.

The rolling landscape is covered
In litter and overgrown weeds.
Crosses from car wreck casualties
Line the roads like misplaced bones.

Everyone that isn't from here
Thinks that this is paradise.
Everyone that lives here
Calls it the State of Misery.