O cuddler, O baby baby,
how can I say you are the sun's heat
on a January day, the cat's pajamas
on the still sill of winter, an orchid,
an owl when it sounds like chewing gum
and static and dolls me up as The Dame
the same as if I'd praised myself?
You stay sheik, and I'll fade.

I'll sing you earfuls of beautiful
(my gams wrapped round your floorflushed self)
in glad ragged loneliness
far from the crush of Us.

I'll call you mountain in the stream,
call you swanky, call you dream.