In the town that I was born, lived a man who made puzzles.

He was no fool on a hill, he had been a paperback writer, but chose to enjoy
life by making puzzles. Each morning at dawn, he'd either be outside or
look out the window, and say, "Here comes the sun!" Then as the sun rose,
he'd say, "Good day sunshine!" 

He didn't dwell much in yesterday, in fact he was so concentrated in the puzzle
making, some people said that he worked eight days a week. But sometimes

when the puzzle orders became a bit much to handle, he'd ask his friend,

Eleanor Rigby, for some help.

(Yeah, I'm done)