Water foaming on her hair
Her is so fair, a sailor would
Fare better nothing but her
Friend the air.

Now poor Pacifico’s call
You see, the wind bothers her so,
She is afraid of how it does blow,
Untrue to her name, sometimes she is not calm at all.

She is dear to Alaska,
Down Under her hair does shine,
Some call her the loving Pacifica,
For can be calm like a pool of wine.

The young on the beach style her hair,
With no thought on earth, no care.
She dances with the Americas to the south,
With the salsa band the song she does mouth.

Luna strokes her hair,
Pulling it in and out,
This pacifies the maiden fair,
Putting her out of sorrow, without pout.

Her son the Arctic has left
His mother in the warm,
So she may rest,
The cold, she knows, is her son’s test