I had a mission, so simple, so clear . . .
Just make fun of Lane, whom I hold so dear.
I sat at my desk, and I thought and I thought,
But to razz my friend Lane, well it all came to naught.
I have plenty of fodder from the good times we've had,
Or maybe a one-liner about Laner's Dad.
Should I write about things that Lane liked that I found?
Like a pretty blue egg that fell to the ground?
Perhaps I should tell of the hilarity
When we ran through the halls with a stick and a bee?
Now those were the days of unrestrained humor,
The making of jokes and starting of rumors.
Lane must be wondering what's wrong with me now,
As he's currently reading with dark, furrowed brow.
But 'though this poem is very weak . . .
You're the one living on "Gaylord Street!"
Love ya' Laner!