The Sweet, Sweet South
Where does the moss grow thick on trees
And ladies drip with sweet gentility
The men let romance grip and seize
Feeling the richness of fertility
Where do the porch swings creak like songs
And the lightning bugs give ambiance
To lovers whispering, promising all night long
With their playful, sensual dalliance
Where are the ladies treated sweetly
Like antique, precious play-things
The fierceness in their breasts, beastly
When courage and hope is all that clings?
That Sensual, Starry-eyed region, where Summer air is as thick as the accents,
The hot, humid South, where every tree, flower, house are kinfolk to the ancients.
