The Pen

"The pen is mightier than the sword" - In general, I guess that's true But mine's a lazy blighter; It treats sloth as a bloody virtue It's not the liveliest of beasts It's always at a halt It likes staring at blank paper As though that's the thing at fault It lives a charmed sedentary life Full speed is torpidly inert It charges around at the pace of a slug When flat out and alert My pen possesses zero 'nift' - I can't fault it for being too nifty Its' sweet repose is a full-on doze It thinks saving ink is thrifty It's scintillatingly steady So passively at peace Unchanging in its' inactivity Like a grazing wildebeest So languid and so supine As it munches on my thought Remaining ever restful Seeing hibernation as a sport It's frustratingly calm and fixed To the point of being plain dull And that's when it's being lively It's worse still, when in a lull But now and then I drag it Out of its' latent, dormant air Force it to get some exercise And treat my thoughts with care Often it’s quite useless It's rare for the spark to light - But when thought and pen work as one Well, that's the time I write