Ah, the lips, and ah, what cheeks;
Methinks though, you are not too deep.
What sunbleached tresses frame your face,
Even though you're lacking taste;
Your laugh tears out the soul of me,
And you're quite bent, it's plain to see.
Now touch me not, with your white hand:
Anemic sprites, I cannot stand;
Fix me not, in your blue eyes,
For I don't want to hear those sighs.
I'm sure your organs are complete-
But I care not, to hear you bleat!