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Follow the typical signs, the hand painted lines, down prairie roads
Pass the lone church spire
Pass the talking wire from where to who knows
There's no way to divide the beauty of the sky from the wild western plains
Where a man could drift, in legendary myth, by roaming over spaces
The land was free and the price was right

Dakota on the wall is a white robed woman, broad yet maidenly
Such power in her hand as she hails the wagon man's family
I see Indians that crawl through this mural that recalls our history

Who were the homestead wives
Who were the gold rush brides
Does anybody know
Do their works survive their yellow fever lives in the pages they wrote
The land was free, yet it cost their lives

In miner's lust for gold
A family's house was bought and sold, piece by piece
A widow staked her claim on a dollar and his name, so painfully
In letters mailed back home her Eastern sisters they would moan
as they would read accounts of madness, childbirth, loneliness and grief