Twelve months from now,
to figure out how,
where and when we’ll meet,
my Precious thing of sweet.

I’ll greet you with some flowers,
we’ll talk for eleven hours,
until our throats are sore,
and then we will talk some more.

Ten minutes long gaze,
in your eyes and on your face.
I’ll admire you, compliment,
my dearest sweetie, heaven-sent.

After nine cups of fine wine,
I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine.
Then it gets lil‘ cereal,
no child-friendly material.

At eight o’clock we’ll get up,
cocoa, breakfast, nice set up.
For lunch we’ll have some stew,
with the flavour of I love you.
...