Your eyes are like the stars:
big burning balls of gas that vanquish
any nearby life--
(with their beauty, of course).
Your voice is like honey
dripping in my ears.
Your skin is wondrous to touch, like...
like that material George Costanza
always wanted to drape himself in.
Your hair is like corn silk:
yellow, with the occasional white streak.
Your body is like an hourglass--
your weight trickles to the bottom.
Your lips taste like green apples
(before they rot, darling).
And you smell like the bouquet of roses
I found in the dumpster behind
our favourite restaurant.
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