Nonsense Song, by W.H. Auden

My love is like a red red rose
Or concerts for the blind,
She’s like a mutton-chop before
And a rifle-range behind.

Her hair is like a looking glass,
Her brow is like a bog,
Her eyes are like a flock of sheep
Seen through a London fog.

Her nose is like an Irish jig,
Her mouth is like a ‘bus,
Her chin is like a bowl of soup
Shared between all of us.

Her form divine is like a map
Of the United States,
Her food is like a motor-car
Without its number-plates.

No steeple-jack shall part us now
Nor fireman in a frock;
True love could sink a Channel boat
Or knit a baby’s sock.
 

(This was the Barefoot Academy of the Week.  I just now read another good Longfellow, but I’ll save it for another time.  And maybe I’ll actually update since tomorrow, I don’t have to work.)