Passing through Fitchville

This small town, it's so little,

There's not even anything worth hating--

If you were so inclined--or loving, either.

You can't miss it, though;

Pay attention where the highway splits,

Go west to New London,

Or south to Mansfield,

Or straight, into the Vermilion River.

You won't be in Fitchville long,

Regardless; you would have passed

The American Legion, that big old barn

Just north of town.

You'll not have stopped in the cemetary,

Not your turn to take a place beneath

The big pine trees on the hill.

Don't take the right that leads past

The elementary school, no longer used,

Where once children shouted at play.

The white Methodist Church waits for

Sunday, austere and empty.

Only across the street, in the point made

By SR250 and Fitchville River Road

Is there life--gas station and mini-mart,

A modern marvel of convenience. Need anything?

No need to stop at the smallest rest stop

In Ohio, a wide spot to park and picnic.

Whoever stops there, anyway, ever?

Just pass on by, over the bridge

And past the turnoff to Ashland,

Fly right through your past.