Not when I lived in New Orleans

Once long ago I had a young guitar student whose name I don't recall but whom I remember as being a very nice girl, a little shy and what I would call wholesome.

She had the unfortunate habit of saying, "Oops," whenever she made a mistake while playing, which was often, sometimes so often that she hardly had time to take a breath before saying it again. After she finished playing, I would ask her, "Where in the music does it say, 'Guitarist says Oops'?" I never broke her of doing it.

One week I had assigned her to practice the next piece in her songbook, which happened to be "The House of the Rising Sun." The lyrics were printed after the music at the bottom of the page:

There is a house in New Orleans they call The Rising Sun.
It's been the ruin of many a poor girl, and, oh God, I know I'm one. 

I've got one foot on the platform; the other foot's on the train.
I'm going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain. 

Now mothers, tell your daughters not to do what I have done,
Spend their lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun.

At her lesson the next week, she was oops'ing her way through it when she stopped and said with a frown, "What's this song about?"

"Well," I said, hesitating because I felt delicacy was called for, she being fifteen and innocent and impressionable. "It's, um, about a house -- of ill repute."

"Ill repute?" said asked, furrowing her brow.

"Yes," I pressed on, "it's, uh, a house where men go to, um --"

"Do you mean a whore house?"

Uh-huh.