Perhaps I might send my calling card,
drop a kerchief or draw it to my lips.
Maybe I’ll blush or show an ankle,
or maybe sigh just as you pass.
We may share a smirk or I might flash
a lash, bashfully, sir, as we dance,
hint at joys yet to come with a celandine,
purse my lips as a kiss in advance.
Should I heave a long and languished sigh,
show my bosom to ample effect,
I trust you’ll forgive my temerity.
I am hopeful you will not reject
my most ardent affection and deep admiration.
And, sir, you may even approve
and send me, instead of the yellow carnation,
the tulip that betokens true love.
I wish not to appear too eager, dear sir,
for a coquette is often a whore,
but I need you to know that these lips
aren’t for show, and I really am up for more.
Do you take my meaning completely, sir?
Being subtle is so very hard.
I’ll expect your response almost at once.
Please do send me your calling card.
