This Homeland is yours and mine,
Though we live a continent apart.
But it's not the lie of the land
But the geography of the heart.

Some born of Pilgrim Fathers,
Of others, he swam the Rio Grande.
But horses of Hell can't drag me
From this, my native land.

Our Ship of State is not worn out,
Though her paint has grown a bit dull
And shows the scars of battle,
A few scrapes along her hull.

But no mother born is perfect,
Nor father that's always right.
Nor country made of mortal men
But may stumble in the night.

Though critics continue to bash her.
Hjghlight each wart and blot,
She's still the finest there is
And the only home I've got.

If it's corny to love one's country,
Let the corn hang out of my ears.
I stand bare headed before God
And offer this country three cheers.

Eugene V. Shea
Hanna, WY