The Ballad of Ms. Priscilla Crabtree

southern rock, delta blues, country rock

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V4.5

Down in south Mississippi, where the magnolias sway, 
Ms. Priscilla Crabtree teaches schoolhouse days. 
She’s a smokeshow from the Delta, got that Southern spark, 
Long kinky dark hair, eyes that pierce the dark.
Legs like sweet molasses, lips red as a rose,
Got the boys all flustered, losin’ all control.

Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, 
Turning young hearts wild,  never playin’ no games. 
Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, 
She owns that room with her sweet southern heat.

Hot and humid mornin’, air thick like red dirt, 
Ms. Crabtree loosens a button on her shirt. 
Skirt catches a breeze, boys’ hearts skip a beat, 
Droppin’ pencils on purpose, prayin’ for a peak. 
She turns and reaches to write the lesson, chalk dust in the air, 
Her skirt rises up, it's too much to bear.

Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, 
Turning young hearts wild,  never playin’ no games. 
Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, 
She owns that room with her sweet southern heat.

Boys hold their breath when she walks by, 
Rebel yells rise, like a hound dog cries, 
She twirls her hair, sets magic to the air, 
One wink, she’s a tease and doesn’t play fair.

In that old wood schoolhouse, where the ceiling fans churn,
Ms. Priscilla hands out grades with a sweet slow burn.
Each lesson’s a sermon with a wink and a turn,
Where the wild ones sit and the dreamers yearn.
She’s the spark in the South, where the summers don’t end,
And every young heart she’ll gently upend.

Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, 
Turning young hearts wild,  never playin’ no games. 
Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, 
She owns that room with her sweet southern heat.

So here’s to Ms. Priscilla, Mississippi’s pride, 
With her rebel spirit and that Southern tide. 
In the heart of the South, where the wild ones roam, 
She’s the schoolhouse queen, callin’ all hearts home.

2090/7500

************ Disclaimer: The character "Ms. Priscilla Crabtree" is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No harm or offense is intended. ************ Down in south Mississippi, where the magnolias sway, Ms. Priscilla Crabtree teaches schoolhouse days. She’s a smokeshow from the Delta, got that Southern spark, Long kinky dark hair, eyes that pierce the dark. Legs like sweet molasses, lips red as a rose, Got the boys all flustered, losin’ all control. Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, Turning young hearts wild, never playin’ no games. Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, She owns that room with her sweet southern heat. Hot and humid mornin’, air thick like red dirt, Ms. Crabtree loosens a button on her shirt. Skirt catches a breeze, boys’ hearts skip a beat, Droppin’ pencils on purpose, prayin’ for a peak. She turns and reaches to write the lesson, chalk dust in the air, Her skirt rises up, it's too much to bear. Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, Turning young hearts wild, never playin’ no games. Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, She owns that room with her sweet southern heat. Boys hold their breath when she walks by, Rebel yells rise, like a hound dog cries, She twirls her hair, sets magic to the air, One wink, she’s a tease and doesn’t play fair. In that old wood schoolhouse, where the ceiling fans churn, Ms. Priscilla hands out grades with a sweet slow burn. Each lesson’s a sermon with a wink and a turn, Where the wild ones sit and the dreamers yearn. She’s the spark in the South, where the summers don’t end, And every young heart she’ll gently upend. Oh, Ms. Priscilla, she’s the schoolhouse flame, Turning young hearts wild, never playin’ no games. Boys go dumb, girls try to compete, She owns that room with her sweet southern heat. So here’s to Ms. Priscilla, Mississippi’s pride, With her rebel spirit and that Southern tide. In the heart of the South, where the wild ones roam, She’s the schoolhouse queen, callin’ all hearts home.

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