If it wasn’t such an ugly word,
a co-gurgluration of a rather unnattractive fruit,
and what sounds like a sex disease,
I would name my daughter Meloncholy.
Though try as you might,
there isn’t a cute nickname anywhere in there.
Mel, maybe.
Holly? Then why bother with all the syllables.
And she would surely be cursed with an eventual lover’s pet name.
A honey, or a deary, or a worse,
a baby.
That is not what I would want for her.
I want her, like me,
far from happy.
But not quite sad.
I want her Melancholy.
Why set her up for anything else? I, after all, will have not a problem at all with naming my son Mania.
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