a poem (and a true story) by Sandra Conner

I know a guy who’s very tall,
Stands six feet, seven inches.
He finds his height a great delight,
An asset in the clinches.

He’s very smart, and that’s a help.
It compensates the strain
Of all the time it takes for blood
To move from heart to brain.

In public he stands proud and straight;
He literally has a ball
When people lean waaaay back and say,
“My goodness, you are tall!”

Height has its setbacks, though. Take clothes:
They must be special bought.
And going in and out of doors,
He must take special thought.

And then there’s dating; it’s a trial:
He’s anxious, Heaven knows,
To hold his partner cheek to cheek,
Not middle chest to nose.

But, still, he sees his height as Heaven’s
Gift — a special gene.
Believes all men wish to be tall,
And with envy they are green.

So happily he struts about,
Looking for that perfect mate.
His only foe the hometown priest,
Who stands at six foot, eight.