If I ever leave this small, old town,

And find that I never come down,

Will I miss the greenery,

The rolling hills, the scenery,

Will the concrete and glass be too loud?

If I arrive to New York in June,

And London or Paris at noon,

Will I yearn for my car,

For long drives under stars,

The leather seat like a cocoon?

But if I leave home today,

Will I say all I've wanted to say?

Or will I just cry,

Find I can't say goodbye

To a childhood now ages away?

For I know I will not want to leave

If I can't bring myself to believe

That my childhood, my car,

The green, all the stars

Are things that are normal to grieve.

So, if I go and never come down

From a city that may be too loud,

I'll drive my car to the wood

Where I ran in childhood,

And wait to leave 'til the leaves turn brown.