28 June 2012
HER lips were red as roses crushed, Her voice a sigh of a sweet-song hushed, Her skin as pale as fallen snow, Her eyes as blue as any could show. Her waist as small as small could be, Her hair so thick and long, you see, Her fingers tapered gracefully, Her breast abundant tastefully. Her movements like a little bird, Her throaty whisper to be heard, Her skin so smooth, unmarred by age, I cannot put her down on page.
MY love has lips of shellfish pink, Her voice a gurgle like a kitchen sink, Her skin is caught by white and tan, Her eyes as soulful as a frying pan. Her waist is thick and weighted down, Her hair a shade that makes her frown, Her fingers stubbed and child-like, Her breast would heave with every hike. Her movements thump and move the ground, Her voice a monstrosity to be heard, Her skin do mouldy it breaks out, Yet next to her I wish to shout.
My love is real, no mannequin, She's not doll-like, plastically thin, She's mine, I'm her's, need nothing more, And that is love's most treasured law.
Real Or Clichéd? • Opuss № I