I was smitten with you as a child,
Though I called you a mugrosa.
You shouldn’t have believed me when
I called you a vain mocosa,
For that’s the way boys show their love.
But you were e’er nerviosa.

As we and my love for you grew,
I stopped calling you mucosa.
Indeed I’d discovered you were
A young lady virtuosa.
But spite the waxing of my love,
Something’d made you nerviosa.

You ignored all my advances.
You remained respetuosa.
I was never sure if you were
E’en remotely amorosa.
In hindsight I see ’twas because
You were always nerviosa.

You were ne’er happy with your looks,
Though you were maravillosa.
You thought that you were overweight;
I thought you were gloriosa.
You believed not a word I said;
You were e’er too nerviosa.

I never saw you eat enough
To feed a flowering rosa.
You were deceived, ’tis obvious,
For you were voluptuosa.
But still you were not satisfied
With your self, my nerviosa.

I praised your beauty, for you were
In every way asombrosa.
In all the creations seen, you
Were by far the most hermosa.
You never heard my praises, since
You were always nerviosa.

I gave you all the love I had;
Nothing could make you gozosa.
Your soul was withering away,
And Fate became exitosa.
I could see the end this would cause,
But you were too nerviosa.

I stayed by your bedside each day;
You were still my mariposa.
You never smiled; my company
Was a pitiful limosna.
You ignored my confessions, for
You were always nerviosa.

Your stomach grew together, and
Hunger made you dolorosa.
But still you wouldn’t eat, and to
Watch you languish was penosa.
I held the hand that you thought fat
Because you were nerviosa.

I prayed that something could save you,
Since to me you’re milagrosa.
But each day found you more listless,
And Death found you perezosa.
I wondered if you made Death fret,
Since you were e’er nerviosa.

“No sabes cuanto quise que
Fueses me cara esposa.”
I whisper to your rotting bones
‘Neath the flowering mimosa.
Why did you make yourself die of
Anorexia nervosa?