It was morning in the valley

Where the cottage stood alone

In a spot in Northern Cali

Where the wildcat used to roam.

She set out for the city

She wore her Sunday best

He paid little attention

To the regal way she dressed.

Out the door, she hurried

With panache and with a grin.

She wasn’t really worried

About seeing him again.

Westward on her stallion

She set out all alone.

The world, it was her scallion.

She was never coming home.