Pretty painted fingers..pretty painted toes. She is - in every which way - a lady.
Each morning - the men..they come a-courting. Winding her up. Taking her out. Wining and dining and dancing her. They escort her out into worlds she would otherwise never see...left alone in the safety of her familiar harbor.
Every night - she rests. She sleeps. She takes comfort in the gentle rocking and rolling...the soothing lull.
She dreams of other lives..of other worlds. She imagines that somewhere out there ...there is something better. She believes there are higher mountains to climb..deeper seas in which to travel. She envisions a life that is exotic.
And then - comes the rising sun. Skies that begin as the palest hint of orange. That slowly transform themselves into misty pinks and soft purples..and blue that never ends. The mist and fog envelope her..warm and embrace her heart and soul. The men return. The day begins anew and again.
There may - it's true - be something out there that is different..but there is nothing out there that is better.
Lucky to be a pretty painted lady - is she.