A poem by James Potter
Roses are red,
and so's your hair.
At words I'm not very good,
As I could and I should.
There's a reason chasers don't write,
Hooch doesn't allow quills in flight.
But my broom's rather fast,
And I'd do anything you asked.
I think you're quite fit,
And you have really nice --- legs.
Please don't leave me.