If I ever leave this small, old town,
And find that I never come down,
Will I miss the greenery,
The rolling hills, the scenery,
Will the concrete and glass be too loud?
If I arrive to New York in June,
And London or Paris at noon,
Will I yearn for my car,
For long drives under stars,
The leather seat like a cocoon?
But if I leave home today,
Will I say all I've wanted to say?
Or will I just cry,
Find I can't say goodbye
To a childhood now ages away?
For I know I will not want to leave
If I can't bring myself to believe
That my childhood, my car,
The green, all the stars
Are things that are normal to grieve.
So, if I go and never come down
From a city that may be too loud,
I'll drive my car to the wood
Where I ran in childhood,
And wait to leave 'til the leaves turn brown.
