The house behind the Chicken Ranch was big in local lore,
With every high school boy in town convinced he knew the score –
Accounts of deep debauchery, of illicit love for sale,
Would tantalize our teenage minds each time we told the tale.
We’d brag about what mighty men we’d be inside the door
But every weekend wound up like the one that went before,
With each of us declaring we would do the deed next time
Yet secretly uncertain we’d engage in such a crime.
We’d always find a reason why we never did go in
And gain some carnal knowledge from a sloppy night of sin.
In retrospect, the odds it was a brothel are quite small
(I’ve yet to meet one soul who saw a woman there at all),
But even if that house had fully earned its reputation
It never could have been as good as our imagination.