Tribal thing

The small town is a tribal thing

No one gets in; no one gets out

From birth until your funeral

Part of the same big family



You take care of each other, sometimes

And sometimes you hurt each other

But you were raised with each other

And grew together like the trees



The town went through many seasons

But nothing really changes there

However many years go by

The same faces; the same places





But there is no getting out of here

You belong to the town; to us



And as small towns lie in state

Names upon memorial stones

People who lived here—and died here

People who were part of the tribe