Fred B. Baker, II

SHE’S GONE

I miss her warm touch
There’s an ache in my heart
It shouldn’t bother me much
We weren’t meant to be apart

She’s my only desire
This gentle young mate
She builds in me a fire
She’s a product of fate

Her spell is bewitchin’
But life promises to be better again
As she returns from the kitchen
My cup in her hand