Dear John, I bet that you're forlorn
And have been since a newly-born,
To find the font's unwisdom blessed
Your signature with little zest:
As well to christen you Anon
As dunk you in and call you John.
At least these wouldn't be old hat,
And might confer a touch of taste,
However it might be misplaced:
The price of infamy or fame
Is often hidden in a name.
Perhaps - and who would blame you here? -
You've even shed a silent tear
That John has such a feeble ring,
While Rumplestiltskin, anything,
Would offer you some confidence,
Or rudimentary recompense.
It must be hard, dear John, I think,
To be as common as a sink,
As nebulous in nomine
As mist upon a moor in May -
You've given death a mental whirl?
I doubt it not, since you're a girl.