Diane: Sam, have you received that rejection letter for your poem yet?
Sam: No, I haven't.
Diane: Hmm. The letter I received arrived within two weeks of my submission, and here it is, three weeks, and nothing for you. Isn't that odd?
Sam: Odd.
Diane: What's this?
Woody: It's that magazine you couldn't get your poetry into.
Diane: Thank you, Woody. I mean, what is it doing here?
Sam: Well, I decided if I'm gonna try to write, I might as well read some of that poetry stuff.
Diane: Sam, that's very commendable. I didn't realize the new issue was out.
Sam: Yeah, it's not bad, either. They got one I really like. Page 37, I believe. Yeah, read it out loud. It'd be good for me to hear.
Diane: All right. "Nocturne" by Sam Mal- Oh!

Sam: Ooh, Diane, come on, please, books are our friends. The page is 37 there.
Diane: Yes, thank you.
Sam: Yeah.
Diane: Well... Diane Chambers is nothing if not open-minded. Perhaps you you do have some spark of talent.
Norm: They published your poem, huh?
Cliff: All right!
Sam: Hey, don't let it get out, though, that I'm a sensitive guy.

Diane: Woody, more coffee.
Woody: Okay, Miss Chambers. I've got something to cheer ya up. I sent in a poem to that magazine of yours.
Diane: Oh, my God, don't tell me that they published yours, too?
Woody: No, I got one of your "soon and inevitably to be accepted" letters. Huh? That's pretty exciting.
Diane: Oh, my God. Sam was right. Sam the Bard. It was a form letter all along. We two were sent a condescending form letter.
Woody: I'm framing mine.

Sam: Okay, I have something, uh, I have to say here. And, uh, I just want you to promise before I say it that you, uh, won't go crazy.
Diane: Don't worry. I've hit rock bottom. I have no emotions left.
Sam: Oh, all right. Um l, uh, I did copy that poem.
Diane: [flatly] You are scum.
Sam: I tried to make one up myself, but I- I just couldn't, and so I- I copied one. I never thought it would be published, I promise.
Diane: What could you possibly have been thinking of, Sam? It obviously had been published to begin with.
Sam: No, no, no, it hadn't.
Diane: Well, then please tell me. I think you owe me that much. Where did it come from?
Sam: Well, actually, it, uh, came from a letter that you wrote to me.
Diane: One of my letters?
Sam: Mm-hmm. And when you didn't recognize it out there, I decided to play it out, and rub your smug little nose in it. I'm sorry. I probably went too far.

Diane: Oh, what a glorious day. I'm going to go do what poets do drink myself stinky. [Sam laughs] Wait a minute. This always happens. You always squirm out of these things unscathed. You did a terrible thing!
Sam: I know it.
Diane: No, you don't. You put me through hell. This time it's going to be different. I'm going to make you suffer.
Sam: What- What're you going to do?
Diane: I don't know. Yes, I do. You're going out there and admit to everyone that you stole this poem from me.
Sam: Oh, come on, you mean I have to go out and tell the whole bar that I'm not a poet?
Diane: You sure do, mister. Let's go.