The brown lady of the south is knocking at my door,
carrying bags of oranges she grows inside her yard.
It looks like a friendly gesture, but I know of her wily chops.
She's come by way of the canyons, and the friction makes her hot.
I dated he once before, but we never left her car.
It was a 67' Mustang, and she parked in my neighbor's yard.
The yard was full of brush, and the brush was ten feet high-
high enough to conceal the truth from my virtuous neighbor's eyes.