I doubt myself, real bad sometimes
I think - why did that happen to me
How could I possibly write that nice poem?
And if I did it once, how can I do it again?
Because I don’t know or forgot how too
With pen in hand, the magic flows again
But the words come from the pen’s pointy end
Not from me, I just write what I’m told
messenger boy, only transcribing
I take no credit except for criticizing
But not for spelling mistakes, that’s Gates’ job
Although he really doesn’t know
The difference between to and too
Hint, it doesn’t make four
Whoa, the pen just ran out of words.