There is a gypsy in her hair;
a place where I slip off to breathe,
a paradise of spring and newborn things,
a playground made of laughter’s glee.
It’s there, among the pair of us,
that fields of white daisies rise up,
and I know that I shall never have want
for a thing that I could not buy–
and a thing that most do not find.
There is a gypsy in her hair
and a fairy beating her wings
against the excited thudding of heart,
beating out it’s inner anxiety,
but how could I not wander forever
among the talk of her and me,
among the paradise of us,
among the playground of life in love?
