“To me, poetry means rocks,” Maud said.

“Rocks?” Floral's face fell.

“Yes. With my poetry, I express rocks.”

“No no no. Real poetry is about sunshine and flowers and happiness.” Floral shook her head. “Are you sure don't mean that instead?”

“No, I mean rocks.” Maud pointed at a rock. “I've already written hundreds of poems about rocks.”

Floral Spectrum gasped. “Such sacrilege! I might be desperate for students but I'm not going to take some freaky rock fetishist. I'm sorry, but even I have my standards. You'll have to study elsewhere.”

Drat.

Start over?