human
Dick’s a lazy boy to be my uncle, said Dorothy, giggling rapturously.
gpt
I guess he’ll be ’shamed when he pulls out his plum.
human
There’s a rhyme to go with it, Dorothy. That’s part of the fun. Do you want to hear it?
gpt
Dick, Dick, the sleepy-head, Dearly loves his little bed. Here’s a cure; ’twill work for sure, Wind it tight. Set it right, And then go ahead and Blow out the light. When morning comes, how the folks will stare, To go to breakfast and find Dick there.
human
That’s poetry, said Dorothy much impressed.
gpt
I learned poetry once, all about Tit, Tiny and Tittens. Did you write a poetry plum for me, too, Aunt Peggy?
human
Now, here’s a pen for the best of men, And I wish it were purest gold. It could not write, in a whole long night, Half the love my heart does hold. Not for Dick’s abuse, but for father’s use, Is the pen I here present. May it long keep bright and continue to write, As well as the maker meant.
gpt
This is for Aunt Peggy Because she’s eggy.
human
But I wouldn’t be _eggy_, I hope, exclaimed Peggy, laughing with an abandon rare in the last ten days.
gpt
So your poetry wouldn’t fit.
human
Oh! she exclaimed, with perhaps a glimmering appreciation of the truth that art is long.
gpt
Oh! I didn’t know that poetry had to be true. She gave up her ambition for the time being.
human
What’s grandma’s poetry, Aunt Peggy?
gpt
We could have a jolly Christmas though old Santa Claus should go. We could do without a turkey at a pinch. And to spare the cheerful holly and the festive mistletoe Would be rather in the nature of a cinch. There is only one thing needed, as you’ll readily agree, One essential that surpasses every other, For of all absurd endeavors, the most imbecile would be, Just to try to have Christmas without mother.
human
I’m going to have a Christmas ’thout my mover,