Song
Better bards than I, my fair,
Golder pens than mine,
Ought to celebrate your hair,
And lips incarnadine.
More melodious songs than I
Ever hope to chant
Ought to make the music my
Penny piccolo can't.
Better bards with greater wit
Ought to sing of you,
But, my Dear, you must admit
That they never do.
Better bards than I, my fair,
Golder pens than mine,
Ought to celebrate your hair,
And lips incarnadine.
More melodious songs than I
Ever hope to chant
Ought to make the music my
Penny piccolo can't.
Better bards with greater wit
Ought to sing of you,
But, my Dear, you must admit
That they never do.
Golder pens than mine,
Ought to celebrate your hair,
And lips incarnadine.
More melodious songs than I
Ever hope to chant
Ought to make the music my
Penny piccolo can't.
Better bards with greater wit
Ought to sing of you,
But, my Dear, you must admit
That they never do.
Better bards than I, my fair,
Golder pens than mine,
Ought to celebrate your hair,
And lips incarnadine.
More melodious songs than I
Ever hope to chant
Ought to make the music my
Penny piccolo can't.
Better bards with greater wit
Ought to sing of you,
But, my Dear, you must admit
That they never do.
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