Her liquid gaze could melt the coldest heart, Her perfect face framed ‘round by ebony; Since early on her dancing was an art – Lithe hands and limbs in quaking ecstasy. Not one to walk on eggshells, biting wit And knife-blade tongue would often trouble make;
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Her liquid gaze could melt the coldest heart,
Her perfect face framed ‘round by ebony;
Since early on her dancing was an art –
Lithe hands and limbs in quaking ecstasy.
Not one to walk on eggshells, biting wit
And knife-blade tongue would often trouble make;
Thanks.
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