It's known as Old Buncom Corner A place where you've got to slow down; A spot on the map where the mem'ries Wander all over downtown. Some say it's just some old buildings That should be politely destroyed, To make way for more solid structures That are more cost-effective employed. Or possibly just tear it all down -- Buildings and trees and the shade, And grind up the earth for more pasture Through which cow/calf units wade. Or maybe we straighten the roads out, Less dangerous then, don't you know! We could drive at neck-breaking speed then (and not at twenty below). But, yet, some folks are a-wondering Why don't we let the ghosts talk? Why don't we repair the old buildings And recapture the historical walk? Rebuild the roofs and the sidings, Restructure the walls and the trails, And walk with the ghosts of Old Buncom And repeat for one day the old mails. And the why of the Indian doings The why of the Passion D' Ditch That consumed the descendants of Phillips And made Kleinhammer so rich. And, why, in the shade of Old Buncom When we see the old buildings in town, We see miner and cowboy and farmer And not just shades of wood brown. And we'll think of the past and the doings Of commerce and mail-toting lines, And the people who came and full-used them 'Neath the shade of the gallant old pines. Just maybe we'll learn what we search for, Just maybe we'll know what we miss, If we but just ken to the whispers In those pine trees' wind-driven kiss.