Lies here, a meadow,
Walked in, a fellow,
His thick and long lashes,
Curled by the push of his glasses,
His skin, a darling brown,
Of mother nature, of the ground,
He bathes in the sun,
You lavish your eyes,
He speaks with lips red plum,
All of the angels sigh,
Not hard as an adult,
Nor soft as a boy,
His is an age of tumult,
Wisdom his convoy,
Stares at him, the heaven,
Whenever he sings,
In silence, the divine brethren,
Almost grant him wings,
Now you see there is no doubt,
He's the lad you'd write songs about.
