I've stopped writing poems
'bout the black of her hair
And the depth of her eyes
which are beyond compare
And the tilt of her nose
and the curve of her breast
And the taste of her lips
which I like quite the best
And the way that she laughs
half afraid that she'll give
Just a hint of the self
that she likes to keep hid
And the touch of her hand
and the curl of her toes
- Oh dear -
Just to keep out of trouble
I'd best stick to prose