ODE TO TWO HOCKEY STICKS
(Just For the 'll of It)
That lovely sound, the double L,
it rolls and trills and feels so swell.
No pell nor mell, no willy-nilly,
always to the point, however silly.
Compared to vowels, some say it’s shallow;
it’s one thing, though, I hold most hallow.

Some foreign tongues just can’t speak it.
No guillotine will ever tweak it.
While Italians sing out “O bella mia,”
in Sevilla they don a lace mantilla.
Japan never had a god called Zilla,
and it’s velly hard to find a Shanghai villa.

So here I’ll dwell, a cautious fellow,
loathe to roam, my belly yellow.
But when it comes to praising ’ll,
I’ll do it often, if not well.