You are not like the moon so bright
who shines with her cold splendor.
You are not like my new car of white
whose chrome gleams from the fendor.
No, you are more like the sun,
whom my whole world surrounds.
You are pure and golden with fun,
and in you all my love abounds.

Your lips are not like the roses of red,
for they always eventually die.
Your lips are not like the faeries that prance in my head,
for they never actually fly.
No, your lips are none of these things too tough,
though soft and plump, they have much more might.
Your lips are pink marshmallow puffs,
which I dearly love to bite.

Your hair is not simple baby's strands,
who cry and fuss and muss them up.
Your hair comes from no human hands,
who, with their dirt, could only corrupt.
No, your hair is a crown of golden wings,
curly and soft for my fingers to touch.
Around your head my arms would I fling,
your beautiful self I want too much.

You are the only beautiful being I love and trust.
All other pretty things, compared to you, are merely dust.

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