Someone once said Tennessee is always green.
To which I replied – why what do you mean?

“I fly from place to place you see,
And from the air, Tennessee
Reminds me of dear old Ireland.”

Is it the hills and lush green grass?
I inquired, sipping tea from a tall clear glass.

“Why no,” she retorted. “It’s the sound of fiddles and singing.”
“The smell of stoves burning wood.
It’s the pastures and forests, clacking of hoofs.”
“And if that twernt’ enough, it’s the smell of the food!”

Curious now, I turned round to discover who it might be,
Could be knowing what lay below one in the air.
Expecting a pilot with wings on his hat,
There sat before me a bird that was black.

“‘Tis I,” saith the Raven,
Now I’ll quote him no more!