Happy Birthday (sorry I'm a tad on the late side) to you Jack, who, in those southern lands where the dusky maidens languish 'neath the spreading palms and discreetly whisper tales to their aged aunties, he is known as Jac-who-can, who, to those in the far north where the shy damsels sit all covered in fur under the penetrating eye of their disapproving aunties, he is termed Yakov, who in the west where heathen women-druids run fleet as deer through the scented forests, is known as Jack-in-the-pulpit, and who, in the exotic Orient where the women dart heated glances over shifting veils and their fathers stand guard through the deepest of nights is known as Jakk-beh-Nymbal but, here in the land of Mudcat where the men may be men and the women may be women and any who aren't are none of your business is known simply as Jack who is called Jack.

Sophocleese, who-should-really-be-writing-romance-novels