by Patri Friedman
My love hath roses in her cheeks -
How beauteous is she!
Her hair it flows like sheperd's creek,
Down rolling neck, to me.
Make sure you water every day,
Else cheeks of rose will wane.
And feed the pollywogs that play
In her pastoral mane.
The coals of love to fire she fans,
The sun burns in my heart.
God's child is she - no work of man -
Perfect in ev'ry part.
Now that explains all this hot air -
Your poor throat must be hurtin'.
But must you woo a maid whose par-
entage is so uncertain?
Well I love her, and she loves me,
The truth, plain, bold and flat.
Young and foolish and happy we -
What do you think of that?
Beauty, I've learned from loves long past
Alone cannot bind youth.
But love? Ah yes, my son, at last,
Your words may bear some truth
Last Modified: The Beginning of a New Millenium