There was once a man who worked
Who used neither hammer nor chisel nor clay
Yet, worked from mornings early hours
Till evenings close of day

Creating works of art
For his fellow man to see
A legacy to leave behind
For all of eternity

His tool is the rounded wood
That holds the darkened lead
This is the tool he chose
To create the words we've read

He would work and mold and shape
His art into a ryme
As he etched it upon the paper
To be read by all through time

These works of art he made
Held meaning as he would sow them
And when his piece was done
He called his art a poem