Countdown

The numbers are ever decreasing.

Number ten is like a hen, all cluck and fluff and fat;
Number nine walks slow, refined; a feather in her hat.
Number eight thinks he’s so great, all infinite when prone;
Number seven’s really driven, hot and in the zone.
Number six is baby chicks, so innocently soft;
Number five, like love alive - a fire held aloft.
Number four has tears that pour from sorrowful green eyes;
Number three, “triangle we,” is curving forth with lies,
Number two, conceited you, stands arrogant and strong;
Number one is love undone: my whispered, solo song.