At night in Nashville, Tennessee
The girlies all wear tresses
That fall and fold
In colours bold
To match their Opry dresses
It seems I have nothing better to do at nights than write pointless rhymes that are neither funny, insightful, nor lyrical. I need the right kind of visitor or a coal fire in the living room so I can sit in an armchair and read Dracula in comfort. I'm waiting for the chimney sweep.
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