Before there’s any sort of frost
The Mason Dixon line will I have crossed
To spend winter months in the south
Where frosty breath never spews from one’s mouth
Like the birds, I’m free to fly
And kiss my northern friends goodbye
To a land where thermometers I am told
Never plunge low enough to feel cold
Down jam-packed route 95 I drive
Cruising over that invisible line
With a bit of luck, I’ll arrive alive
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