This is the story of a man who only spoke in rhymes. One day, he meet a man that only spoke in alliteration. This is their conversation.

“I say, dear sir, do you have the time?
I’m sorry. I speak only in rhyme.”

“The time, ’tis three, to tell the truth.”

“Why thank you, good fellow.
I like you hat, yellow.”

“So splendid your sincerity.”

“I do try, I do.
Tell me, good sir,
What is new with you?”

“Well, wanderer, I work with the wine whisperer.”

“What is kind of job is that?
And why wear such a hat?”

“The wine whisperer weaves the wind of the west into the winery.”

“But why wear that hue?
Does that help the whisperer, or you?”

“Neither. No, nothing natural notably occurs near Ned.”

“Is the whisperer Ned, I wonder so much,
This job sounds so mysterious
I have ne’er heard of work as such.”

“Spiritual songs, secretly slipped silently into selected sip of succulent solutions.”

“How is this done?
I want to know,
I will tell no one,
Not priest or nun.”

“The magic, my mystified man, would marvel men for millennia.”

“Tell me, sir, tell me,
The mystery.”

And then the alliteration man died.