It’s only by the Grant
That the Mississippi
Flows strong.
The walleye leave
Only to yearn
For the Grant River song.
The cranes nest
And feed the Grant
And the Grant feeds forth
Toward the Big River.
The canoes not knowing
Where the water was born.

The Havarti and Brick,
Gouda and Cheddar,
Limburger, Swiss,
Go better together
With a mouthful of beer
From the neck of brew fairest.
So, tie me to the rear of a milk truck
Heading North to New Glarus.

The misnomer became apparent
When my eyes lifted from the beach.
They call it Green Lake,
But it sparkles blue to me.
And when the sun becomes bashful
And clouds take reign of sky
I can look into the rivers
And see trout swimming by.
The people here know it
And I’ve come to learn it, too:
Besides the pines and shrubby things,
Green Lake ain’t green, it’s blue.