[Jager]

My birds' eyes are like the setting sun,
In my yellow nine-eight-six she’s plenteous fun;
Cabernet wine is far redder than her lips' red,
If hairs be silk, golden silk grows on her head;
I have smelled countless roses, red and white,
Her perfumes provide similar delight;
But no such roses I sense near her cheeks,
For some reason my bird suddenly reeks!
I love to hear her speak, soft evening breeze,
But hark; I believe she just cut the cheese;
That nightcap had a far more pleasing sound,
My bird squawked, time to hit the ground;
A wine bouquet meant to breathe, tis not,
My once attractive bird, now not quite as hot;
And yet, by heaven, in my Boxster uptown,
Swiftly push the button, relief, convertible top down.