In Numbersville, where days were always even bright,
And every passing year was resolutely odd,
Lived a boy named 59, born of 34 and 25's light;
Their common thread, a prime number, 3, by nature trod.
The mother held a pretty smile, the father charming, broad,
His sister, sweet 9, a smart and likable soul,
But our hero, 59, was free of fame's demanding toll.
59 was rather benign, shy, and quiet to the core,
A figure mild, perhaps a bit of a bore.
He fell in love with 60, fair and perfectly round,
Our hero was completely struck, no logic could be found.
He took a bold stance, risked rejection just to score;60 smiled, a gentle curve, and asked him to refine his luck,
For she had met with 44, who shared a common 4, and didn't need more pluck.
Now 59 was sad, his vibrant prime seemed lost;
He took his oddity as sign, whatever the cost,
And worked the silent streets, a mime with painted face,
He wondered if being different was a crime, a flaw to be erased.
His days were spent in quiet thought, reflecting upon time, the silent space.
On one unusual day, during his muted act,
Riding a unicycle, balancing on one knee,
He saw a freckled girl, a twisted nose, a striking fact.
"61," she stated simply, as if to prove her destiny.
He found her odd, delightfully so, in just the right way.
He hopped off his cycle, seeking her to make a pact,
Told her, "You're odd, and that is perfectly okay."
He heard her shrill and awkward voice, a slow smile on his face,
Every line between them filed like a perfect Ray,
And just one single word she had to say.
Five long, happy years have passed since that rare encounter's start,
She is still in her prime, and so is she, forever young at heart.
They share a cozy house, and a little baby, 120,
A number perfect, double all that 60 used to be.