Oh, where is that beautiful city, mamma,

The one that is called Fort Wayne?

Does it rest in the light of a clear blue sky,

'Way out on a sandy plain?

Or may it be found where the roses climb

Over trellises built so high

That if you would pluck off the topmost one

You'd have to climb up to the sky?

Or where all the streets are so smooth and so clean

That buggies and bicycles, too,

Glide along with all ease in the sweet dreamy breeze,

Like balloons in soft heavens of blue?

Mother: Not there, my child, not there.

Fort Wayne is a hustling city, my dear,

On the banks of the old Maumee,

Where most of the folks are too busy to care

The beauties of nature to see.

'Tis a place where they all pay a tax, my dear,

For repairing the street, you know,

That they all may enjoy their bicycles, dear,

As "bumpety bump" they go.

And should you e'er enter that city, my dear,

Be sure that you always look down,

Or first thing you know in a rut you will go,

And find yourself flat on the ground.

Or if 'tis not you that is flat on the ground,

Your bicycle ruined will be—

There are tacks, broken beer-bottles strewn all around,

Fort Wayne is the city of "tags," my dear,

As every taxpayer knows;

Tags on their horses, their wheels, and their dogs,

And tags from their heads to their toes.

When its people go into the country, my dear,

To enjoy its cool breezes and shade,

They are bangled and spangled with tags, my dear,

Till they look like a circus parade.

It is there, my child, it is there.