The pen, one thinks,
Is a marvellous invention like kitchen sinks.
It snugly fits into the common hand,
And is tightly made like a rubber band.
From it ink flows and flows,
Sometimes fast, and then others slow.
Up and down, left and right it goes,
And when it’s usage ends, nobody knows.
The ends are always great to chew and bite,
And for your diet – they’re very light.
You can get them in all shapes, sizes and colours,
And if yours runs out, well then just nick yer brothers!
Pens also don’t have any feelings,
So if you use another one, you wont catch it moaning and grieving.
And once more they come very cheap,
And compared to the old chalk and board they’re very neat.
The pen has taken many forms in the past,
Feathers and sticks and other ideas that are quite daft.
And now with the great biro,
Pens can easily be used and then to the bin go.
But the best part is without a doubt,
Is the amazing literature that out of them has come out.
Years of play writing and re-drafting would’ve gone to waste,
If it all had to be kept at that bit behind your eyes at the back of your face.
So here’s to the pen and the greatest of friends,
For you give me the means to write poems to no end.
For without you I think I wouldn’t be me,
Although, sorry to ask you this, but can you spell check like a PC?