They Call it Hell

They call it Hell,
Because it's hot from April till November
Because within the silent houses, some people still remember
The glowing kiss of snowflakes, and the jewel-toned leaves
Bursting in October, and the golden sheaves
And they remember long lost days, back when they still had dreams
Days of light and joy, days of blues and creams
And when the winter comes here, it's neither hot nor cold enough
And it itches at your skin because the wind is cruel and rough
They call it Hell because it's dead, though still so painfully full
They call it Hell because it's humid, and oh so dreadfully dull
The flowers wilt in windowsills, and the heartache never stops
And you always hear They have it better, and it's stifling in the shops
They give you hope, then snatch it away, until you're scared to ask
And hypocrites preach on street corners, and you can't take off that mask
But what they don't yet know, is this is nothing new
But what they can't admit--though it is still true--
Is there's tea and sugar, and oceans and the breeze
And love and glass and futures, and winter's still-green trees,
And the Place Before was better, if "better" means "the same"
Because a city's just a place, when called by any name
So here's the bottom line, as far as I can tell:
The South is just the south, unless you call it Hell.