Despite my preference for a quiet life, I've recently found myself plunged into an uncharacteristic round of parties and, as a consequence, encounters with new acquaintances.
The following poem, however, is entirely fictional.
HIDE AND SEEK
At Marty’s party, met a man:
a polymath, he seemed to be,
well-bred, well-read, artistically
At cocktails we
discussed his penchant for the arts,
his thoughts on how mankind began:
a rather interesting man,
a charming man
of many parts.
He had a most intriguing plan
to make a mint: he had contacts,
he swore he did.
I told him I was nearly skint
but he accepted fifty quid
to let me in on the ground floor:
said he was on a winning streak,
(a chance like that you can’t ignore)
swore he would call me in a week
but now we’re playing hide and seek.