Only a real man writes poetry. At least that’s what Aunt Winifred told Nephew Hayes. Lesser men grovel around in prose, but a real man writes a poem.
Hayes had been dating Mabel for over a year now. He wasn’t an overly clever chap but he thought he might string together a line or two of poetry. Anything to impress Mabel. Anything to make her go weak at the knees.
Mabel’s such a pretty name It makes the birdies sing, But I can’t make it rhyme with anything.
Hayes screwed it up and dropped it on the floor.
You are my sunshine on a rainy day You are a restful park bench on my way You love me especially when I pay.
Again Hayes screwed it up and dropped it on the floor. There was getting to be quite a pile of paper there now. It was also getting to be late afternoon, and Hayes was getting depressed. He began to think he’d be better happily grovelling around in prose for the rest of his life.
A violet by any other name would smell as sweet And you smell.
Hayes screwed it up and threw it on the floor. And then the doorbell rang. Hayes answered the door. There was an envelope. It was a message from Mabel: