Isn'T It Ironic
I'm not quite sure if she is lost or in route
Tornadoes of passion wisp her away
But inevitably, they cause dispute
The ironic glue that makes her stay
Excited, confident, proud and ashamed
A soup of emotions, each extreme
A recipe only God could explain
A frozen water droplet and a puff of steam
On her tip toes, atop the Eiffel Tower
Dangling by a thread of hope
Don't inquire time, for she knows not the hour
Clinched tightly to a swinging rope
She rides the little hand around the clock
Her defense remains the same
Beneath par, but it will tick and tock
Til half past time to claim
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