I'll never write a song about Nashville

Skim through the first chapter.
It's just introductory.
White bread, bbq, country music.

By the second chapter, you learn
bless yer heart does not mean bless yer heart

Third chapter. You're still romancing Tennessee,
and everyone's a songwriter.
You watch their lips composing lyrics while they
absentmindedly wait on your table,
and you're tempted to ask what the melody of the chorus sounds like.
You're a voyeur here, a witness to the cruel and miraculous drama of someone
"livin' yer dream".
Maybe its true, and maybe it's just the way you'd like to see it.

But if you stay in Nashville long enough,
she sheds these accessories.
She shows you big ole trees with cherry blossoms,
weeping branches and warm moist air.
You hear the southern drawl that is simply
speech wrapping itself around the lush rolling hills,
the way words sound when everything is a song.

For that reason,
I'll never write a song about Nashville.
It already is one,
and my fingers always did have trouble playing the last chord of the chorus.