My Love
By mickleinapickle
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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.
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Comments
Burns and Shakespeare, what a
Burns and Shakespeare, what a crew, to take your love and renew you.
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