A book, hideous and white,
Half way through its fight,
Met a pen, high with might.
It's tip so smooth.
Ink like a soft flute.
It's form, loving and cute.
Now the book had this weired feel,
It thought the pen was here to fill.
......
A book, hideous and white,
Half way through its fight,
Met a pen, high with might.
It's tip so smooth.
Ink like a soft flute.
It's form, loving and cute.
Now the book had this weired feel,
It thought the pen was here to fill.
......