Before there’s any sort of frost
The Mason Dixon line will I have crossed
To spend winter months in the south
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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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