"Lovely lady, take this basket:
'Tis your willing slave who asks it.
It was made by an Indian maiden—
With my love it now goes laden."
"That's simply magnificent!" said Ronald. "We ought to write another verse, hadn't we?"
"As you say."
"If we can do another one as good as that, it'll be a masterpiece. My name ought to come in at the end, hadn't it?"
"Nothing rhymes with 'Ronald,' does it?"
"I didn't mean that—I meant my front name."