Silken, lying in his arms,
Within fair summer’s balmy clutch,
When all life’s trials seem too much,
She revels in his gentle touch.
And all the men of all the farms
Will drool over my lady fair,
Dressed in crimson, shoulders bare,
Who seems to flirt without a care.
For he alone, the tempest, calms;
When Lord and Lady seem not well,
Or ring not on the dinner bell,
When lacking, tears and bosom swell.
So gaze upon my Lady’s palms,
You’ll see her marriage in that line.
And all that should be, is not fine,
For this fair Lady, she is mine.