Today I got to work and someone with my name sent my office email a poem:
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Nae stockin’ on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snaw,
Or early blossoms sweet.
Her simple dress o’ sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimplit chin,
Her puckered lips, and baumy mou’,
With na ane tooth within.
Her een sae like her mither’s een,
Twa gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel’s face:
We’re glad she has nae wings.
— Jeremiah Eames Rankin
It was like a moment at the beginning of a suspense novel…