I often like to say
That I love to write
That it makes me gay
But what I scarcely say
Is how horrible I am at this trade
And how awful it is to say
All that I have to think
On paper, with ink

You see,
It's quite easy for me to see
But I'm sure you saw it first
Written in ink
On this paper
It stinks
Awful badly
And sadly
I continue to write
Until my thoughts are out of sight
Horribly mangled
Onto this paper
That has been strangled
By these words I try to write
But never without spite
For I envy all those men
Who can spin words with their pen
So easily and care free
They make me quite angry
Yet inspired by their being
This is why I should stop
It's really quite a sin
That I continue to try
To write with this pen