Paradise
by H. B. Howard
Leave dreaded old Fort Worth
And go forty miles north
Up the Rock Island road
For a place of abode
And find a city built
With no criminal guilt.
'Tis Paradise, not lost,
But built at a dear cost.
Built in Indian time,
Built with the musket rhyme.
'Tis a name sweet to hear;
'Tis a name to hold dear.
Ask her citizens old
About the bandits bold.
They can tell you well
Of men who bled and fell
For Paradise not lost
Yet built at a cost.
But they have been repaid
For west from river glade
Where cotton is the chief,
And nothing brings them grief.
Live their heirs free from vice
In dear old Paradise.
Flowers before my eye
Now in her gardens lie.
Their fragrance is so deep,
It lulls my way to sleep,
And in no fear of vice,
I reside in Paradise.
Map
to Paradise
