Hello,
my name is Paper.
How are you?
Good, I'd like to tell you a little something.

I am in love with a pen.
Her name is Bic.
She draws on me with silky smooth ink.
She never scratches on me,
and sometimes furnishes me with a big tick.

Her lid is blue like her ink,
as blue as an indigo felt tip.
She has a metallic ball point,
which glides smoothly over me.
Quills who? They have to dip.

You know,
the author of this poem is using Bic right now.
I wish it didn't have to end,
oh no, the dreaded.