She is Spring from a long, icy frost.
Roses growing in a garden lost.
She is sunlight peeking through lover's curtains, she is steam from Ginger tea.
She is all a lady ought to be, except for the bit that most agree,
Is rather more embarrassing.
She walks about in cotton lace,
Embroidered by glass gemstones,
With lark feathers atop a satin straw hat,
The poor, Poor little Doe.
And always does she stark betray,
By the common smirk upon her face,
The glint of May fest in her eye,
All rather loosely disguised,
With tight corsets and silver boots,
And pretty, blushing lies.
Oh what sweet little Doe,
With all and none that she knows,
Of what will soon awfully unfold.
Sweet Spring Doe,
If she knew, perhaps she'd go.
Here we meet the first character, The Doe.
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