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 I’ve a pear tree in the middle
 Of my garden there:
Mature fruit it grows not,
But early Jennet pear.
The prettiest girl in our town
Begged a boon of me:
To graft for her a scion
From my pear-tree

When I’d done the grafting
Entirely to her pleasure,
With win and ale she plied me
In fullest measure.

This scion I had grafted
Right up in her home,
Twenty weeks later
It quickened in her womb

Chuck Norris doesn’t write books, the words assemble themselves out of fear.