Her hair was cream cooling in the pantry
And her eyes were hot buttered scones
And her look was a pancake’s flip, one side done
And her teeth were fat oysters from Bantry bay
Her nose was that liqueur you can never remember the name of
And her back, her back, was Sunday apple pie
And her shoulders were risotto - sometimes rissoles
Her freckles were grated nutmeg
Her scent was crushed blackberries
And her last smile was fresh baked bread
And her song was sweet and sour
And her tongue was Mississippi mud pie
And her laugh was milk and honey
And her arguments were those strange dips from M
