The town has a certain rustic charm 
that rides in with the rain,
the rain that always comes 
a little too late.
The smell of wet, fertile soil mixes with
the smoke from the detective's cigarette.
It's hard to tell between
the humid atmosphere 
and the tension that is, "at mos' fear"
Our son and daughter 
don't quite understand
the roots of the past 
Only the truth of broken glass
of yellow tape
and red crosses,
and all the colors of the rainbow