Jones Gap Good
The land of paths interwine
Curving around a bent fork's tine
Run Interstates straight as a spine
While backroads weave in and out of the pines
Through God's country rolls highway number nine
Snaking the mountain like a kuduz vine
And in between those lines
Wraps the air that feels greater than fine
A perfect blend of salt to sugar brine
Fried chicken and watermelon red ripe to the rind
Atop granny's quilt bare feet dine
Skin warmed by the slant of sunshine
The quintessential southern combine
Rare is this kind of divine
A wholly sky with stars align
Unnecessary is any type of redesign
All the water has turned to wine
Anything and everything one can opine
Without fear of being judged asinine
A saturated love breaking what confines
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