Dear, Is that a bomb in your hand?
You kill me with your looks dear!!!
Oh! Please don't kill me!
Hair gently autumn, fingers lift'em up
lips slowly open pearls then turn up
sitting in a cosy posture, I see her smile
she sends no mail nor any facsimile
she twists and turns like a spring on it
she's Ms. Perfect and she is only fit
writing and chatting, looking enhancing
she appears like a rainbow dancing
put off the fan she's so light than feather
bereft her cheer, oh! I just wither
She is a grenade, it is her look or a dart
she is my rosy first bench sweetheart
No comments:
Post a Comment