Crying in the Midwest

Cold breeze, tall trees,
back to the Midwest is where I want to be.
Dark winter nights, stormy summer days,
thick rolling fogs, crops ready to raze.
That's the place best suited for me,
always miserable is pure ecstasy.
Camping nights out under the stars,
with civilization lost and far, I'll extend to her my hand, and she'll break my heart.
Sitting sad upon a log, I'll drink and smoke,
then sing along with the rest, then prattle on.
Cold dew mornings, scented with pine,
Midwest living, that'll do just fine.