Among my early memories are verses from Mother Goose. The perfect rhymes stick with me, sometimes within lines (“Hay-foot, straw-foot”) and sometimes nailed down at the ends of lines (“Hickory, dickory, dock, / The mouse ran up the clock”). Sometimes the rhymes did not quite align: “This little piggy went to market,  / This little piggy stayed home, / This little piggy had roast beef, / This little piggy had none.” I was told that I said to my mother, “‘home” and ‘none’ don’t rhyme.” “But look,” she said. “‘This little piggy’ repeats.Read More