The Girl with Messy Black Hair

As I passed by her house everyday,
In the mud and the grass, I would see her play,
In her frilly little frock, that pink little frock,
She was there, the girl with messy black hair.

Sometimes, she was all immersed in her play,
with her dolls and her toys she would talk all day,
happy and content, with her own little friends,
She would be, the girl with messy black hair.

Sometimes she would be like a butterfly,
grinning and waving at every passer-by,
hopping around, flying all over the ground,
In tow, all of her messy black hair.

One day she gave me a shy little smile,
Then lowered her eyes, stole glances for a while,
Then again surfaced, with a lit up face,
Her face, the one with messy black hair.

And then one day, she wasn’t there playing around,
Then the next day, and then the whole week round,
She made my day, and now she was away,
unknowing, the girl with messy black hair.

On Saturday, I went there, looking for her,
And I saw her walking back with her mother,
They were chatting together, her hand on the finger,
As I searched, surprised, for her messy black hair.

She now wore a blue frock, pleated and neat,
She had a bag on her shoulders and shoes on her feet,
On her hair was laid, in a neat little braid,
her shock of messy black hair.

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