A Project for Better Journalism chapter
H-H Writers

My Hometown

We ride our tractors to school,

Even if we aren’t allowed.

We leave our fields un-plowed,

For next years farming folk.

The air is filled with cow manure,

There is no cure for sure.

One time every year,

The air filled with smoke,

As the fireworks broke.

At the nearest field,

They scream aloud

As the band bowed.

The best SAT scores,

But we don’t like to brag.

The golf team put up their golf bags,

As they finish in states.

The bowling team stands by,

As she qualifies.

For some of us

We set our own rules.

But we are too cool

To admit it.

Most of us suck it up,

Or we will be locked up.

With the exceptions of some,

We tend to be country.

We aren’t afraid of rusty,

Beat up trucks.

This is my hometown,

Full of mystery and charm.