While the world sips their tea, she shugs her lemonade
They dip it warm with croissants, she mushes with lemon cake
Though her cottage clandestined, an impression has been made
And no one knows clues, of this beau fella\'s name.
Why she drinks her drink gone warm, when it doesn\'t taste the same
Why or how her eyes embodies emeralds and her hair epitomize a flame
A name, a name! Has anyone done a claim?
To this mysterious pretty lady that sets the town\'s people\'s hearts aflame.
And ladies take a sit at the balcony, she sits down at the grass
For the season seems so fluid and time seems not to pass
Her ears in a slump, save the cling of a glass
Cause she comes from the country, yet the southern beau of all France.
She enjoys the sunset, though doesn\'t shine far as deep
As it would do for her, for every time she would weep
Closes her eyes at the wind as she does when she\'d sweep
And dreams of that sweet taste every day, like clockwork, in her sleep.
Dames would dread of aging and she\'d think of yesterday
To use those memories as a delicate, clean getaway
The females\'d laugh and envy her beauty as together they\'d
Be swept away by their warm tea and her? A southern beau needs just her pink and sweet lemonade.