To write my words across the virgin page,
Or doodle nonsense in the margin, if,
Some mindless fancies do my thoughts engage.
It's served me well, this slim clear Perspex stick.
Made plans, signed cheques, whatever I'd desire,
Scribed chapters of my book, that irksome beast,
That taunts my waking hours, raises my ire.
O, that it had the will to carry on,
Could find some great reserve to fill its point,
Become the mighty weapon it once was,
And with deep blue, my purple prose anoint.
Alas! A fitful stutter, broken line,
Its final words must now be near at hand,
The reservoir's run dry, an empty shell,
Quick! Something clever for its grand last stand.
But nothing comes, the moment's past and gone.
Our joyous times are over, c'est la vie.
Into the bin you go, my faithful friend,
I'll go and buy another, after tea.
2 comments:
Mightier than the sword.
B.
Easier to carry, too.
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