"My dear," Says the lady,
So fair and so smart,
"Are these forthcoming poems
not truly an art?"

'Why darling," he smiles,
"So young you may be,
But you've yet quite to notice,
This sky is a sea."

The lady returns,
With the air of a queen,
"Please proofread your comebacks,
They're not as they seem."

He nods, brisk and cheerful,
And blinks but one eye,
"When you say this, my child,
Is the lord being sly?"

Confused but not baffled,
She scrunches her nose,
"Kind Sir, 'for I answer,
lets sign this here road."

"There's no logic, no point!
Why dabble in that?"
As he pulls out a marker,
and grins like a cat.

Insistant, she presses,
nose high in the air,
"But these poems, my darling!
They're overly fair!"

Avoiding her comment
With skill and with grace,
He raises his marker
and draws on her face.

"My lady," He sings,
a slight lilt to his voice,
"In truth, we're all poems,
With words of our choice."