It’s known as Old Buncom Corner

A place where you’ve got to slow down;

A spot on the map where the mem’ries

Wander all over downtown.

Some say it’s just some old buildings

That should be politely destroyed,

To make way for more solid structures

That are more cost-effective employed.

Or possibly just tear it all down —

Buildings and trees and the shade,

And grind up the earth for more pasture

Through which cow/calf units wade.

Or maybe we straighten the roads out,

Less dangerous then, don’t you know!

We could drive at neck-breaking speed then

(and not at twenty below).

 

But, yet, some folks are a-wondering

Why don’t we let the ghosts talk?

Why don’t we repair the old buildings

And recapture the historical walk?

Rebuild the roofs and the sidings,

Restructure the walls and the trails,

And walk with the ghosts of Old Buncom

And repeat for one day the old mails.

And the why of the Indian doings

The why of the Passion D’ Ditch

That consumed the descendants of Phillips

And made Kleinhammer so rich.

 

And, why, in the shade of Old Buncom

When we see the old buildings in town,

We see miner and cowboy and farmer

And not just shades of wood brown.

And we’ll think of the past and the doings

Of commerce and mail-toting lines,

And the people who came and full-used them

‘Neath the shade of the gallant old pines.

Just maybe we’ll learn what we search for,

Just maybe we’ll know what we miss,

If we but just ken to the whispers

In those pine trees’ wind-driven kiss.