The summer was a long and empty expanse of laziness.
The days were an excuse to read and sunbathe; hot, haziness.
The bookshelves were full of literature; though some less lofty,
And the verse book was calling —
Calling — calling —
The verse book was calling me, and it was very bossy.
It was a green tome, quite heavy, its title embossed on the spine
Its pages, and there were many, were the color of white twine
They turned with never a crinkle. They were sewn tight in neat stitches.
And it opened up to the middle,
Its perfect, very middle,
Its center, its mid-section, opened to the most-loved riches.
Here I met Bess, lovely red-lipped, black-eyed, Bess brave; sadly doomed.
Here I met horse-handler Tim, as he listened, plotted and loomed.
Here I met the Highwayman, and likly fell in love with him.
I hoped for a happy ending,
I prayed for a happy ending.
I expected a happy ending, my first reading of the poem.
The ending was even better than a happy ending could be.
Bess, shot at the window, warning her lover to quickly flee.
The Highwayman, shot dead on the road, killed by the King’s men.
I found my Grandpa’s Underwood and typed
The poem over and over I typed
I committed the poem to memory that summer by typing and typing again.