Lord send her quick, my heart feels sick,
a red-head, light brown or jet black
My patience drains, my sanity wanes,
my heart heads for the door with its pack.
Lord make her hair long, flowing and strong,
to tie ‘round my waist like a sash.
I pray she can dance, from England to France,
through the tunnel of love we will dash.
You can make her small, dizzy and tall,
or slim as a bean on a stork.
Is she strong as a lion with muscles of iron,
can she help cook a meal of pork?
Will I ever see, the one right for me,
before the Lord leads me on high?
Or visit the grave, before she could save,
this heart that will give up and die?