H is for the head I'd like to put. E is for every time I see the little ones. L is long and far first is G's. G is for how good that longing is. Huh. Huh? And A is for Arnold, of course. Da! The little twerp who sets my soul aflame, put them all together, they spell on. I'm so glad I got to play with you. Hey, here I go. What's wrong with you? You sleep at the closet, son? Yeah! Oh, man, Arnold, that is the funniest poem yet. Whoever wrote him is pathetic. Read another one. OK. But it's the last page. Here it goes. H is for the head I'd like to put. E is for every time I see the little one. L is. Hey, what are you laughing at? Wow. For a spitball of the day, football head. Arnold, what a boob. What an annoying little smart and handsome know it all. Now I despise him and yet. I love him. His noble curiosity, his cool keen powers of observation, his unfuduring sense of right and wrong. Oh, if only I could find a strength to tell him how much I adore him. If only though some way I could let him know, some way I could whisper my secret adoring thoughts through this favorite brown dare I even think it kissed the lips that haunt my girl of dreams. Oh, if only if only. How long? What are you doing down there? Nothing. I just dropped a quarter. That's all. A quarter? Yeah. That's right. A quarter. Now go get me a milk and step on it, Phoebe. Make a chocolate with a bendy straw. So you Arnold, my love, my soul-tree-preteen. Why must I hold you only whilst I dream? Will I be forever enslaved by your spell? Why must I worship you and never ever tell? Arnold, you make my girl to tremble. My senses all go wacky. Come on! Come on, CMS. All right, after one hour, speechless. Stabs my body, dreadful cards, you look 28, including a pair of triple philips of pieces! Lately, I became depressed. Now I need to Weiter KEA to mess with kids forever. be enslaved by your spell? Why must I worship you and never ever tell? Duh! You make my girl a dremel, my sense is all go wacky. Shut up! I'll tell the world my love. Or my name's not Helka. Gee. Pataki. Shut up! Shut up! Hoda, who are you talking to, honey? A one. Just my imaginary friend. Oh hey, I'll sew another place at breakfast. Great mom, great, great, great mom, great. Are you mocking me? Why must I worship you? And never ever tell? Trust me, you won't live long enough to tell. Calix, like fields of yellow corn, all the days of my wake. I write the name, I do not speak. The boy with the corn flower hair might be lov'ed and might despair. That's a keeper. Oh, Arnold, so disprim'ing, so patient and thoughtful, spurning the golden girl and saving his affections for one less likely, yet perhaps ultimately more deserving. One who may not be the prettiest or the witness, but whose primitive beauty, grace and charms, like tragically unobserved and unwicked, someone like me, Helga Jean Pataki. Oh, Arnold, pain of my existence, blight upon my tortured heart, if only you knew light from feelings for you, and if only you felt the same true feeling, sun towards me, dare I imagine. If only for one brief mad moment, it would flue. Call me mad, but I'm dare. I dare. With this chalk and no witnesses in sight, I will write the words upon this wall, which bear my soul, expressing all I hope I dream, I pine and I pray, was true forever and today. Arnold? No, it's not me. No, it's not me. No, no. Yeah. Arnold, you idiot. I've always worn it. I've always loved you. My darling. My darling. Kiss me. My darling. Oh, so shake it for me, this. Wondering the dismal deserts of my tormented soul.