I think that The Lost Art is a better name for my town.
I can give you a tour, but first you have to use your imagination.
Imagine a place where being wonderfully weird builds townships.
Women walk around topless, and best friends do Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. impersonations.
Put your mind only to this pleasantly unusual unique of town-sites.
Now I want you to use your heart.
Think of the people all around.
Every town has it’s own set of sketchy characters, assholes, and sweethearts.
But it’s really about the beauty that surrounds.
If our iced tea is bitter, my town uses real sugar not artificial sweeteners.
Forget about where you are for this stanza.
Your surroundings are bars with truck stop signs and “KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD” tie-dye.
There’s a warm sense of community with live music bonanzas.
Fields of bluebonnets and nature paths greatly out number our dust balls and hog-ties.
We all walk around like we’re celebrating strange people extravaganzas.
This is the place I call home.
In this town, my soul was born.
I am sick with creativity from the town’s weird people syndromes.
But it’s really exciting to have passion-sickness as airbornes.
We’re all just a bunch of crazed killer bees building lovely honeycombs.
Here I slowly say I love this city.
And for that, I don’t need to imagine.
My town has musical talent with green-eyed girls on groupie committees.
Haters screw up everything, and Lovers make bigger impacts.
When things get too crazy, we have peaceful drum circles for subcommittees.
Naming names for this place is irrelevant.
All you have to do is come visit us first, and you’ll be The Lost Art’s modern observant.