Once upon a Midwest hour, a town arose from prairie’s flower.
A train perhaps had gone her way, where pioneers did stop and stay.
A lake, nearby, would be her view, as college, stores and houses grew.
Streets of dirt with wagon ruts, a few grand homes, a few poor huts,
Churches full of plaintive hymns, men and women, hats with brims.
Here where once Lakota thrived, Germans, Swedes, and Danes arrived.
English though would top them all, spoken word of great and small.
Over time, this humble town, would grow in stature, from the ground.
All along the shores below, a park with many trees would grow.
Sleepy sleepy little place, all alike, from one race.
Not a problem, no one cared, no one spoke up, no one dared.
Walk along the shores today. Note, the world has come to stay.
“Ohla” from a woman fair, long black shiny wavy hair.
“Sah bye dee” a man may say, sticky rice for lunch today.
“Mah lay from a passerby, mah lay muh gwah is the reply.
“Se lahm a man from Cush may state, peace is good, bad is hate.
“Oh chooah echoes from afar, a word that comes from Myanmar.
“Nah zhong a young man calls to you, octopus on barbeque.
“Men sing mau” the neighbor sighs, “Good Morning” from Pacific Isles.
“Pri vyit” always brings a wink, ordering your favorite drink.
“Bonjour” to you from Congo’s child, familiar words with handsome smile.
“Singchao,” you hear across the way, a war has brought her here to stay.
“Rananim” is heard by you, They helped our troops in World War Two.
A dozen other cultures here, besides the ones you often hear,
Our town has welcomed all the world, their words and food are here unfurled.
Poo poosa, taco, fuh or rice, Injera’s spicy, but is nice.
Grab a burger, fries or pop, food like this will never stop.
Have no fear, it’s all ok, ask the people, they will say,
“We see no color, nor divide, no race nor culture, only pride,
We work together, side by side.
Here in this, great, Midwest town, the world has come to settle down.”
Take note the change, as children play, their English words as plain as day.
Over time, in hundred years, we all will only English hear,
Til comes the hour, when far away, another crisis sees its day,
Hunger, famine, strife and sword, will push another people forward,
Who will welcome, who will take? I think the people by the Lake.
A rural town with welcome arms, a place to live so free from harm.
Storm Lake, you fair and welcome place, where thrive the throngs from every race.
AlanCummins
