She sees left and right whilst upside down,
laughing in hysterics at idealistic semantics.
She jauntily journeys to and from small towns,
smiling dead smiles at boys being subtly romantic.
They all want her, the mean queen without a crown,
to be captured by one or another comely fellow.
They all see the lies, under painted makeup thick as a clowns,
she tells with those brown eyes shaded in true yellow.
I see her, my child, my dear, my eyes look around
shiftily calculating the great fortunes I would pay
to knot fingers in her hair, to hear her heart pound.
There she goes now, along on her merry way.
Not that I would join in all the lads attempting her heart,
for fear of the magnificent nothings I would say.
I imagine my presence would give her quite the start,
when she sees I'm true yellow, being born to be afraid.
When I dream of her, I believe she dreams of me.
.
