She was the kind of girl,
That, if you were to write her a love song,
It would not be about her face,
Which was touched by the angels
Or her eyes, which held the map of the sea
Or her hair, whose golden curls were like a ball of fire
For she had none
She had a stable face
And speckled blue eyes
And her hair was long and in a constant state of disarray

She was the kind of girl,
That, if you were to write her a love song,
It would not be about her personality,
Which was perpetually positive
And always knew the right and nice thing to do
And cared for every living creature, even the spiders
Because that wasn’t her
She was pessimistic
And had major lapses in judgment
And really didn’t like spiders

She was the kind of girl,
That, if you were to write her a love song…
Well you wouldn’t
And she was fine with that
She didn’t much care for them anyhow
They were artificial and cliché
And she had no need for one
Those lovely
Mushy
Pesky things