SOUTHERN BEAU

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.