A long time ago lived a guy
His name had to do with the sky
He always seemed sad
But maybe was mad
Because…
"Marlene, what rhymes with guy and sky and has to do with Sephiroth?" asked Denzel.
"I don't know," said Marlene. She looked over Denzel's shoulder at the sheet of paper. "Cloud didn't live a long time ago!" she protested.
Denzel rolled his eyes and brushed imaginary dust off the table. He was surprised that she'd figured out the subject of his poem so quickly. It made him doubly glad he hadn't decided to write something about the "guy" having hair like a chocobo and being as dreary as his name.
"It's called poetic license," he explained, very slowly and carefully.
"Why are you writing poems anyway? And STOP chewing on that!" Marlene grabbed the half-gnawed pencil and whacked Denzel on the head. He promptly snatched up an orange plastic vase and landed a blow to Marlene's face. Water and droopy flowers flew everywhere.
"Ti-faaaa!" Marlene wailed, wiping a leaf off her nose. "Denzel threw –"
"I don't want to hear it!" Tifa yelled from the upstairs of Seventh Heaven.
Marlene's face scrunched into a fearsome frown at Denzel's smug look. "Fine!" she yelled. "Find your stupid rhyming word yourself!" With that, she stomped up the stairs, leaving a trail of greenish water behind her.
Finally getting his long-awaited peace and quiet, Denzel turned back to the task at hand – finding a suitable word to complete the last sentence of his masterpiece. After a horribly long time (at least 2.07 seconds) he threw up his hands in frustration.
"I'll just write a haiku instead," he grumbled. He got up to pluck an un-chewed pencil from the cup by the phone. As Denzel sat down again, the business end of a paper airplane hit him behind the ear, bounced off, and floated gently to the floor. Picking it up, he unfolded it and found a poem, written in bright pink ink.
A short time ago lived a guy
He wasn't prepared so he died
Along came his doom
In a darkened room
"Poetic license!" he cried
Just then, the lights went out.
"Okay, Marlene, very funny!" said Denzel, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking like a leaf. Thunder crashed. Denzel crawled under his chair. He wished he hadn't read that horror story with a flashlight under his blanket last night.
A deep and very evil laugh came from the corner of the room.
"Denzel!" the voice called. "Never again shall you torment the world with the awfulness of your poems!" It paused. A tiny light clicked on, showing a very sharp pencil hovering almost at roof level. Slowly, it floated towards Denzel.
"Die now!" roared the voice. Denzel screamed.
Abruptly, the lights flickered back on. Marlene sat on Cloud's shoulders, holding a penlight and a pencil. Cloud was holding a speaker attached to Denzel's tape player. He grinned and pressed the Play button. Thunder boomed from the speaker.
"Denzel!" he said in the same roaring voice. "Come out from under that chair, young man!"
Denzel obediently crawled from beneath the furniture. He stood up and straightened his sweater, clearing his throat nonchalantly.
Cloud set down the tape player and lifted Marlene off his shoulders. He reached for the piece of paper with the now-infamous poem on it. Quickly scanning it, he narrowed his eyes.
"Marlene was right," he said. Sternly, he looked at Denzel. "You shouldn't write things at others' expense," Cloud reprimanded. Denzel hung his head.
"But," said the blond, lifting a finger to wave at him, "I will forgive you for writing horrible poems if you'll do something for me."
Denzel brightened considerably. "What?" he said eagerly.
Cloud grinned. "Help me write one about Tifa."