Tell Me Again
Why You Love Me

I don't think it's my dress sense,
it couldn't be my hair,
It isn't my intelligence,
nor yet my savoir faire.

My singing voice is tragic,
an artist I am not,
my cooking's far from magic,
I'll never earn a lot.

My kids are brats, my house breeds rats,
I dance like a baboon.
the flower of youth has passed me by
I'll be menopausal soon.

I've got a horrid feeling,
I hope it isn't true,
that what you see in me may be
how much I see in you.

Sarah Lawson

If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Lawson would be pleased to hear from you.

{short description of image}