“What d’you mean, ‘come again’?” I said, looking up at him. “My mother used to read me these poems.”

“As a child? No wonder you turned out the way you did!”

I promptly whacked him over the head with a hefty book of Silvia Plath.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing his head. “That hurt.”

“Yes, you’ll find that Silvia Plath is exceptionally heavy,” I said in a mocking tone, and went back to my previous position, snuggling down even further to read more.

“What are you reading now?”

“Won’t you leave me in peace?” I whined, and then answered. “If you must know, it’s called ‘The Highwayman’, and it’s been written by Alfred Noyes.”

“What is it about?”

“Oh, my, God!” I exclaimed, putting the book back down on my blanket covered legs. “If you’re so interested, come and sit and read with me, for Pete’s sake! Your yammering is giving me a migraine!”

Silently, he complied, and I put the book between us so we could both read without difficulty.

Very soon, I could see he was snagged by the poem’s words.