I find flyers at my door;
Every day a different face
Asking me to sell my place.
Here in Punggol time stands still;
Flying kites our means of thrill,
Soft drink bottles made of glass,
Giant, endless fields of grass.
Why in Punggol do I stay?
That is what my friends do say.
It's so very far away
And there's nothing there to play.
Punggol's silence is its charm;
Tranquil, peaceful, quiet, calm.
In this life of work and stress
Punggol is my place of rest.
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