In your breath are magic spells
Which wisp and curl on every word,
And as they waltz, your rhythmic voice
Becomes the sweetest sound I've heard.
There is such phonetic grace
In every phatic word you place,
But should your lips eclipse my name,
And let it slip with warm acclaim,
Or better yet, in passions flame,
Should you, with love for me proclaim,
Then science, to its knees will fall
As air will hold no oxygen,
Nor argon, neither nitrogen,
But beauty, magic. That is all.