Blonde, blue eyed, suburban, two hundred percent American the nation hangs on the perky point of your nose as your corn silk corkscrew curls are straightened, and you fly to Paris to collide with fellow shooting stars, but you never forget that boy,
although there are quite a few, lyrics recycling their smiles like Splenda confectionary tissues. Your melodies are one note harmonies on the discord of Romantic Middle Class Mediocrity, saccharine apples in a shiny package for teens who haven't bitten life too deep.
But there is still a boy in a red pickup truck, teardrops and Tim McGraw. The girl next door has a backbone of country strong and books filled with silly, sweet, strawberry sodapop songs, slipping over herself in earnest for the rawness of four chords about love, ends that spiral back to beginnings.