O Tongue, Sir, thou I salute with glee -
How canst I but marvel at thee? -
What gloriousness thy countenance betrays, -
This pinkish slab of muscle, that spotted uneven fray -
Thy cuteness magnified, those movements, that grace, -
With that speckled form, thy crowning one's face. -
O Tongue, Sir, this but an ode be -
Declareth I, how I worship thee! -
"Come little girl, let us wander down half-lighted forest paths, crunch through dead pine needles and broad leaves, and chase after wriggly worms while the sun plays perpetual hide and seek. Come!"
come. :( you said it to you...i'm saying it to me..:(
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