She’s never been to Paris,

But I love her just the same,

She can’t speak a word of French,

Or even play the game.


She never, ever dresses,

In fine satins with perfume,

Just low cut jeans and halter tops,

So tight there’s little room.


The only rose she’s ever had,

Is tattooed on her back,

To compliment the other one,

Above her fanny crack.


She’s never been to Paris,

No she’s never left these hills,

It’s home to her, no need to go,

She loves these rocks and rills,


A Friday night in Chesnee,

That is where the workweek ends,

Cheep wine or a glass of beer,

With me and all her friends.


No need for her to put on airs,

She’s genuine and free,

She likes being who she is,

And she likes lovin’ me.


No… she’s never been to Paris,

And I doubt she ever will,

She can’t give up these mountains,

Where her grandpa used to till,


Yes, I have been to Paris,

And I liked it over there,

But I came home, to be with her,

Because we are a pair.


She’s never been to Paris,

And I hope she never goes,

I love her just the way she is,

Her head down to her toes.

used by permission
Copyright © Ron Bliss
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