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