A woman who felt no resistance
to doing her banking long-distance
intended to start an account
to stash an impressive amount.
In order, they said, to proceed
depositing funds, she would need
to give them a password to enter
their banking and processing center;
it must be eight letters, all caps
(a secret mnemonic, perhaps).
To keep her transactions secure,
she settled on something obscure,
resolving her password would be
K – B – P – B – T – G – G – P
(initials for names of her pet
macaws, which she’ll never forget).
She didn’t feel timid or nervous
in trusting this critical service,
but being a bit of a nerd
and cautiously prudent, preferred
to clearly pronounce every letter
and – what could be safer, or better? –
to verify each by example
(providing, for context, a sample).
She thought that her choices were stellar,
And so did the telephone teller,
but when she said “K as in Karen”
the teller heard “A as in Aaron,”
and when she said “B as in Bottle”
the teller heard “C as in Coddle,”
and when she said “P as in Parrot”
the teller heard “C as in Carrot,”
and when she said “B as in Beagle”
the teller heard “E as in Eagle,”
and when she said “T as in Tickle”
the teller heard “P as in Pickle,”
and when she said “G as in Girdle”
the teller heard “T as in Turtle,”
and when she said “G as in Gecko”
the teller heard “E as in Echo,”
and when she said “P as in Poodle”
the teller heard “D as in Doodle.”
The teller, who typed what he heard
without any clue he had erred
was confident all was OK,
and when he proceeded to say
“Your password’s ACCEPTED,” she thought
the service had worked as it ought,
and ended the call after thanking
the teller for trustworthy banking.