GRAHAM SAID. “My first poem will be for Matt Lindenheimer. Let’s see . . . Lindenheimer . . . mindenheimer . . . tindenheimer . . . windenheimer . . .” “How about you just use Matt?” I interrupted. This could take forever if we had to rhyme something with Lindenheimer. “Yeah, Matt,” Graham agreed. “That’ll be easy. Let’s see . . . how about this? “Matt, Matt, You’re not very fat, But you have a big brain, So happy Valentine’s Dain.” “Dain? What’s a dain?” I asked. “Come on, Raymond. That’s just a poetic way of saying day.” Graham looked at me like I was an idiot. “You can make stuff up like that when you write a poem.” “Sweet,” I said. If we could make up words, this was going to be easier than I thought. “Let me try.” “All right, why don’t you do one about Lizzy,” Graham suggested. “Whoa, that will be hard,” I said, “but I’ll give it a shot. “Lizzy, Lizzy, Your hair is curly and frizzy. Every day your face is crinklier, Like you just smelled another stinklier.
