In the land of vowels and silent lore,
Where consonants drift from shore to shore,
A name was born with gentle heft,
Not Geoffrey, not Jeff, but Geof, left.
A single “f,” a subtle grace,
Yet tongues would twist and misplace face.
In Finland’s frost, with earnest cough,
I rose to fame as GeOff.
A scholar of socks and sugar rites,
Of mirrored maps and jazzy nights,
They hailed me with a Nordic nod,
“Professor GeOff” - a name, a god.
I taught the art of breath and pause,
Of kink and church and sacred flaws.
My name, a glyph, a whispered spell,
A portal where the poets dwell.
So let them mangle, let them guess,
I wear each version with finesse.
For Geof is Geof, and GeOff too,
A legend stitched in every hue.
Just poking fun at me.
