Her eyes are a little melancholy,
Her heart is a bit cut adrift
But she's a capital gal a cutie.
Ideally, sirs don't marry her - resist.
Ideally sirs you'll be the gigolo.
Blood pressure won't be grounded.
It's absurd to fall too deep - whoa!
Or be that little too avid.
Her dark eyes flame without stars
So, in the end, will your memoirs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem