Arianne Is April Morning, That Comes Rippling Through My Window.
She's The Smell Of Coffee Brewing, On A Quiet, Rainy Sunday.
She's The Purring Of A Kitten,
That Has Made My Neck A Pillow For His Head.
Arianne Is Silly Music That My Father Used To Whistle.
She's The New Leaf On A Fire
That I Had Given Up Last Winter
And What Writers Have To Feel Like When They Suddenly Discover They've Been Read.
Arianne Is Momma's Crystal Bread That's Nearly Finished Baking
She's A Rainbow In A Puddle
And The Happiest Birthday
She's A'goin Out On Friday And A'comin Back On Monday With A Tan.
Arianne Is Made Of Feelings So I Milk Her Of Her Kisses
And I Swallow Up Her Breathing And I Taste Her Where She Love Me
And I'm Filled To Overflowing But There's Always Room For More Arianne

Arianne Is Momma's Crystal Bread That's Nearly Finished Baking
She's A Rainbow In A Puddle
And The Happiest Birthday
She's A Goin Out On Friday And A Comin Back On Monday With A Tan.

Arianne Is Made Of Feelings So I Milk Her Of Her Kisses
And I Swallow Up Her Breathing And I Taste Her Where She Love Me
And I'm Filled To Overflowing
But There's Always Room For More Arianne