Buffalo Island

There’s a place I recall down in old Arkansas where the grass is green, and the air is clean. the sun shines bright, and the moon at night spreads a silvery band all over, on Buffalo Island.   I was just a lad when I left that mound, to make my fortune in Memphis town. I left a cool mid-summer breeze that always blows through the willow trees. I bade farewell to my ma and pa, with a misty gaze I kissed them all. Yes, I left that day like a full-grown man, and I left Betty Jean on Buffalo Island.   In Memphis town the lights were bright, and for a while I was charmed by the sights of buses, and trains, and people, and bars, of movies, and neon, and women, and cars. The people I met were friendly and gay, and I eagerly sought the start of each day. Oh how glad I was to have left the sand that covered the ground on Buffalo Island.   But, the days grew short, and the nights grew cool, I began to think, “Oh what a fool I was to leave my happy home.” “Oh why, oh why did I ever roam?” What ever possessed my boyish mind to think I could leave Betty Jean behind? What made me think that to be a man meant to leave my home on Buffalo Island?   So I’ve got a ticket on the next Greyhound that leaves going west out of Memphis town. Going back to my home in Arkansas, back to the farm, and ma and pa. I’ll spend the remaining days of my life with Betty Jean as my loving wife, and I know I’ll never understand why I ever left my beautiful Buffalo Island. Written November 25th, 2001 © on Nov 25 2001 07:02 AM PST   0 • 8