The Roswell Historic Town Square

Lyrics

Yeah. Saturday morning.

Four sides of red brick, holding the green.
Salt Factory's got the windows open.
Every storefront cleaned for the weekend crowd.
The bandstand is empty now, just quiet wood under the sun.
But I can already hear the ghost of last Friday's cover band,
bouncing off the courthouse wall.
This whole town, it breathes from right here, from this patch of grass.

This is the square.
This is the heart on the map.
Where the market trucks pull in and the old timers tip their cap.
From the Friday night lights to the Saturday sun,
this is where Roswell comes to be one.
Yeah, this is the square.

It's Saturday morning.
Feels like June 8, 2019 all over again.
I remember that smell.
Ripe peaches in wooden crates, the wet-dirt smell of new potatoes.
Fresh-cut grass from the city crew.
A diesel engine grumbles, backing a flatbed in.
Canvas tents pop open.
They're setting out the honey jars and the summer squash.
And the whole town just kind of... drifts in, one coffee cup at a time.

Down there, northeast corner.
See that little iron ring in the curb?
Bolted in around 1925, they say.
For a horse that's long gone, for a farmer who sold his goods right here.
It's just sitting there.
Holding the memory to the pavement
while the Priuses and the Highlanders cruise by.
Holding on.

This is the square.
This is the heart on the map.
Where the market trucks pull in and the old timers tip their cap.
From the Friday night lights to the Saturday sun,
this is where Roswell comes to be one.
Yeah, this is the square.

Got my beer. Got my bench.
Sun's going down.
The streetlights are coming on, making the leaves glow.
Yeah. The heart's still beating.
Always will be.