Lisa in the Ring:
The girl with golden hair
ain't singing the blues, reds or browns.
Keeping her chinny chin up,
but no wolf's blowin down her house
with life's hard knocks knocking
on her door through the evening air.
She lazily strokes a coffee mug
full of fresh brewed dreaming on a Sunday,
and she'll down it all,
with always enough room for dessert,
sprinkling her life with a changing tide,
sending her off to new horizons
with only the stars as her map.
Blowing in the wind,
with an autumn leaf's understated elegance.
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