Domestic Goddess

Morgish Love Song

 

My love is not the prettiest flower;
Her fangs could bite an iron nail;
her fiery eyes scowl and glower;
I love her ever without fail.

 

Her leathery skin is not soft to touch;
No-one I know would call her clever;
But she stays by me in the clutch;
And still we'll always stand together.

 

My love's voice hoots like a battle horn
When she calls me in to any meal;

Her cooking even a witch might scorn;
She dances less with grace than zeal.

 

She rules the house with a heavy hand;
Her breath is not the first of spring;
Her arms are ropy iron bands;
Her hair a mess of tangled strings.

 

Yet I would miss her, were she gone;
No lady ever so pleased my heart's decree;
I'd choose her out of any throng;
Why? She somehow still loves even me. 

Note: Of course in Forlan 'in the clutch' is not an automotive term, but refers to the moment in a fight where one resorts to grabbing a guy's - ahem -attention.