It is true, my hon <br />that not all of them, really <br />will be chipper and fun <br />so consider this freely <br />when you sit on your bun <br />in the morning's wee hours <br />that I may be the hun <br />who, like soft April showers <br />when all's said and all's done <br />would gift-wrap you in flowers <br />so when down goes our sun <br />the unwrapping brings joy <br />and, done slowly, is fun <br />you won't be my toy <br />but rather my sun. <br />And your smile is the web <br />that our friendship has spun <br />thus there is no low ebb <br />or displeasure to shun <br />you ask about reading <br />another one wrong <br />which reminds me of needing <br />to hear a love song. <br />And the sun will not grow <br />inside your pink soul <br />I know this is so <br />as the sun is so whole <br />and you are such perfection <br />as those secret vibes told <br />so my own predilection <br />is your heart, made of gold.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-my-attic-i/
