Adelaide and Atticus
Met they did . . . but no one knows how it came about
It’s doubtful we may ever find a solution
In our time, cause somethings remain pure mystery
Whilst others end in rhyme
Some say they both were wordsmiths
Who put their quills to page
Back when fancy printing was simply all the rage
A well of India each had and the grandest sets quivers
Calligraphy across page should you catch their point
On paper more like linen - the likes we seldom ever see
One of a kind, keep that in mind, as there were no duplicates
Such fascinating topics to read away and read away again
More than mesmerizing so . . . one’s tea would turn ceramic cold
Lord - the biscuits could grow stale around the sunporch in the spring
Or any other season once we learned about these writer’s flings
Is there a single compendium left for any curious eyes to, ogle or peruse?
Those grandiose works of art, authored and affixed by Adelaide and Atticus
The Higginbotham’s in distant rustic Coventry
Of course not, that’s absurd!