Within the wavy red brick heights
Are walls that have heard sounds
Of aviation miracles
And poetry resound
Where replicas of genius labs
Authentic taverns lie
Where cars as old Wilson’s reign
Go happy passing by
The locomotives run on time
Their roundhouse stands today
There’s stilts for every passerby
And games past children played
There’s singers on the streetcorners
A barbershop quartet
As well as cheerful carousel
Farm animals, not pets
Between all that and London shops
I don’t think you’ll be bored
But if that somehow gets to you
Go to the Henry Ford