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Poetry Pen

Sitting on the table, I wait as my master thinks, He has a paper on the desk Ready to pop me open and write. My master is a clever man, And I his beautiful pen, He uses me once a day, To write down all his poems. My master is a poet. One of many others And will soon think of an idea. He will pick me up, And click me open, And use me to write a poem. I am his Poetry Pen.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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Book: Reflection on the Important Things