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.
