A primrose, I suppose,
With a prominent nose,
And a portrait of a naughty girl with a hose.
Her eyes, the blue mediterranean with a phosphorous glow.
Her hair, fine oriental silk down over her neck to one side,
Like the curtains in the theatre down across a column
before a gallant presentation.
Her lips, a field of berries,
Fluttering in the summer wind,
Making love to the tune of light, warm heart,
Playng Final Fantasy, was it, on the playstation?
Her fancy, films and their production,
As music, I concur.
I wonder what she reads and what brings muse to her heart?
Perhaps it's T.S. Elliott or Edgar Allan Poe, to start,
And an old dumb joke that a father's daughter would take to heart.
Perhaps she has fallen to the fears and frustrations of modern love,
I think not!
Her celtic bark speaks of a superfluous power
And the feminine strenght one can only find
In flowers of the jungle.
If i am mistaken,
Let my words crumble,
And I will remain,
As always, humble.
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