Goooooooooooollleeeeeeeeeeeeee, Miss Penelope, you make me blush all over!

But I do think that you must agree with the poet that "What is written from the heart must have the same coloring as the character of the writer. True natural feeling flows freely from the innermost nature and carries with it some of the inherent force of truth. Where . . . a strong intellect plans and a noble and generous heart works, there we may look for a great literary work." And so I offer you this ode, written I am afraid by someone far, far more talented than I, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. It is sad, though.

 Lament on the Death of Willie

Willie had a purple monkey climbing on a yellow stick,
And when he sucked the paint all off it made him deathly sick;
And in his latest hours he clasped that monkey in his hand,
And bade good-bye to earth and went into a better land.

Oh! no more he'll shoot his sister with his little wooden gun;
And no more he'll twist the pussy's tail and make her yowl, for fun.
The pussy's tail now stands out straight; the gun is laid aside;
The monkey doesn't jump around since little Willie died.