My love is not like
a red, red rose,
with her aquiline features
and roaming nose;
I couldn’t compare her
to a summer’s day
perhaps a wet weekend
in early May.
My love is not like
an orchid in bloom
though resembles a tulip
at the end of June;
she’s not as joyful
as a bird on a spree
but she is like a cat
who’s scratching a flea.
My love is not like
a bright, starry night
though early morning
she is quite a sight;
she’s never a vision
in silk and lace
for crinoline red
is the hue of her face.
My love is not like
the blossom of spring
though does get wind
like winter can bring;
she couldn’t have launched
a thousand ships
but perhaps Titanic
on its maiden trip.
My love is not like
a mystery smile
though her toothy grin
would stall you awhile;
when all’s said and done
she’s the one for me
for I’m no Adonis
myself, you see.
a red, red rose,
with her aquiline features
and roaming nose;
I couldn’t compare her
to a summer’s day
perhaps a wet weekend
in early May.
My love is not like
an orchid in bloom
though resembles a tulip
at the end of June;
she’s not as joyful
as a bird on a spree
but she is like a cat
who’s scratching a flea.
My love is not like
a bright, starry night
though early morning
she is quite a sight;
she’s never a vision
in silk and lace
for crinoline red
is the hue of her face.
My love is not like
the blossom of spring
though does get wind
like winter can bring;
she couldn’t have launched
a thousand ships
but perhaps Titanic
on its maiden trip.
My love is not like
a mystery smile
though her toothy grin
would stall you awhile;
when all’s said and done
she’s the one for me
for I’m no Adonis
myself, you see.
