Page 89 - Poetry-Books
P. 89
The Pencil
The pencil heaved a weary sigh
And murmured to the pen:
“I’ve never felt so out of sorts
Since—oh, I don’t know when!
“The penknife treats me shamefully.
It cuts me in the street,
And really is extremely sharp
Whene’er we chance to meet.
“And when I broke the other day
Beneath its bitter stroke,
It said it didn’t see the point,
No more did I the joke !
“With many troubles I’m depressed,
My heart feels just like lead.”
The pen mopped up an inky tear:
“I weep for you,” it said.
—(Windsor Magazine, 1900, from The Cleveland Plain Dealer)
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