The harvest moon touched down
On the west side of the county.
Mosquito smoke was thick I pedaled through the flooded trees.
There's a blonde there with a buckle.
Who'd heard a lot about me.
A honeysuckle flower unmolested by the bees.

My chest was getting tighter as I pulled into her drive.
With a shoebox full of tapes, like a cowboy's loaded gun.
I'd swoon her with the stories that I'd heard a thousand times.
Better said by better men who'd wrestled bears and won.

It was 1994 my intentions were at war.
With my inner limitations, what could have laid in store.
I don't regret those words or the songs I sang to her.
I was painfully inadequate and somewhat immature.
If silence is a cancer boys then alcohol is the cure.

I never made my move.
It's a good thing that I didn't.
The Rolling Stones were right, sometimes you get just what you need.
She was chiseled out of stone.
They broke the mold God would admit it.
She could shake those Georgia peaches boys and make a bottle bleed.