There was a princess, proper,
And a wayward fool, a pauper.
Can love take a new route,
Not flattering eyes and fluttering hearts?
In this world of dying souls,
Can living be not such an art?
Is shame the secret of love struck dimwits,
Is rainbow the colour of blush?
Is time a manner of butterflies,
Is love just a blood rush?
(for her, again)