Green and fresh, the hills around,
The sky is blue, it's always new.
Raise you eyes and in the distance
Snow capped peaks loom into view.
But the ghost town's old and weathered.
Crumbling shacks all in a row.
All that's left is bones of buildings
That have died long years ago.
Here and there a board that dangles,
One more swing before it drops.
All about are cupping shingles,
As they cling to bleeched roof tops.
Now the night has spread its blanket
And the air is cool and sweet.
Close your eyes and listen briefly
To the sounds along the street.
There's a hustle, there's a rustle,
Is it sounds of shuffling feet?
And a distant violin
That's playing music soft and sweet?
Do we hear the sound of people?
Is the town alive at last?
No, it's just the evening breeze
That whispers stories of the past.
Just how long 'till all is rotted?
Every plank and every door.
Just how long? Perhaps forever,
'Till the ghost town is no more.
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