An Obvious Object
Well as I write this bumbling poem,
The credit surely goes to me,
Yet stop! Lets analyze to whom
This honor really should esteem.
The pen’s a wondrous sort of thing,
With ebb and flow she brings to life
The every whim of human being,
No complaint of tiring strife.
My fingers run across her white
And shiny plastic body, oh
What lovely artificial life
We spark into that inky flow.
Vermillion green, she stains my lines.
That green, it churns within her shaft:
Translucent, labeled “vision fine,”
Fine indeed—you ease my task.
Her ballpoint bearing dipped in ink,
It glistens while it procreates.
What happens when ink’s gone, you think?
Pen runs dry, she’s done with play.
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