Thee songbirds fly straight t'wards her hand
- an', to be honest, I completely understand
- why they, all, make their way into her palms;
- she catches ones eye like ancient artifacts o' bronze,
- or shining, gem-crested rings made o' silver or gold,
- or leather, hard spined books that're, ever so, old!
Yay- she shone like a quartz crystal in the sunlight
- an' caused all the bandits to pause their gunfight
- as they admired her crossing the street
- with big, ole' fairy boots on her feet!