Sam1-4 wrote from afar
    (I'd never met or heard of him)
    in a box of sandals, blue,

A note, quite brief, which simply said,
    'Packed with pride by Sam1-4'
    (sweet he thought that I should care),

And, mused I, that Sam must be
    a kind and gentle working man, 
    perhaps a sort I'd like to meet,

Though almost certainly he speaks
    a tongue quite strange, unknown to me,
    like bird song mixed with clicks and halts.

In my mind I greeted him,
    "Hello, dear Sam1-4, good soul!
    How pleased I was to get your note."

And he replied, "My dear new friend!
    How fine it is to hear from you!
    You are the first one to reply."

And so we garrulously spoke
    on many topics, low and high,
    women, books and moons above,

Until the man from Porlock knocked,
    (the interruptor famed of old)
    who broke apart my reverie.

I know that Sam1-4 and I,
    shall speak no more, and I shall miss
    conversing with this distant friend,

Who, if were found, could only speak
    with smiles and tears and waving hands,
    as he outside my head would be.