I need to tell you you’re the one, the girl of my dreams.
Or so to me it seems,
but I am only eight.
I loved you from the start, and in class at you I’d stare,
playtime pull your hair,
like boys do at eight.
We will meet atop the slide and I’ll whistle a serenade.
Ply you with lemonade,
’til mums shout it’s late.
Then I’ll lie and think how to impress you at school,
by acting the fool,
and turning up late.
I hope we’re still together when we’re both eighteen,
and you’re still keen,
or at least still my mate.