The Poet's Pen

With this thing, A poet can sketch, The beauty of trees and rain, This thing is main, Without this thing, it looks, As if an ice-cream is without smack, Or the brain with a crack. So, this thing you ken, It’s the poet’s precious pen. Thoughts are unlimited, But my brain’s cerebrum is limited, So there’s a need to express, My pen which is so kind, Does it for me, it’s a must Without my dear pen, My mind would have burst. So, this thing you ken, It’s the poet’s precious pen. So, I think that every poet gives compact, To this fact, That half of the credit for their tact, Goes to the pen, With which a poet, Can describe the secret lion’s den, Or the funny movements of a hen. So, this thing you ken, It’s the poet’s precious pen.