Princess

Don't you wonder, when he sees you
In your striped pyjamas,
Your hair rough and tousled
After a good night's sleep;
That he's going find out
Sooner or later,
That you're no princess,
From a fairytale land.

Your lips cease to glisten
When the lipstick wears off.
Your cheeks ain't tinted with roses
Unless they're from L'Oreal,
You eyes aren't always framed,
by the dark lines he loves to trace:
In fact, in the mornings, they're a bit bleary.

Your wit isn't always at its shining best,
Your intellect often falls through the gaps
You shouldn't have left in the conversation.
You're no princess: that he knows.
But if he still holds you,
When you're bleary eyed in your striped pyjamas,
He makes you feel like one, doesn't he?