I know a lady, a porcelain lady
Who downs in ribbon and lace
The finest silk of Persian-make
Reflects her inner grace.

From hazel hoops of beauty,
To scarlet lips of rose,
She wears her favorite colors
In fashion where she goes.

She paints a vivid picture,
Sterling silver say the least.
She walks as if to remind me,
It’s beauty not the beast.

But the cascade down her wrist,
Is not her only name.
She plays by harp and lyre,
For those who wish to stay.

She delights in telling stories,
German quips, a special tie.
Though a simple song of classics
Is her calico-dappled sky.

A star amidst the night,
She writes a gentle prose.
Mere mortals can only hope,
The friendship never goes.