Whilst (humm a use of the word "whilst", and correctly too I think, surely my mind is becoming unhinged)
Anyway, whilst I was reading through random files on my computer in an effort to restore some kind of cohrerent order to the mess that is my hard drive (the main problem being that in an effort to save time I name all of my files random collections of keystrokes such as: fdjkwa;, fh;ashdf, or the astrounding filsdvjns [which is what happens when I hit my head on the keyboard] which means that later I have to re-open every file and find out what the heck it was) I came upon this little ditty that I wrote apparently in October of 2001 and thought it might amuse (apparently I am being highly parenthetical this evening - as well as only marginally grammatical - just ignore me)))))))))))).)
To Bic.
I call upon the muses shining bright
To bless my humble Bic with ink tonight
An Ode to plastic pens it is my aim
And with it to procure my certain fame
This Bic, it was a pity purchase, true
From a pencil hawking clerk in vest of blue
I passed the pens reclining in their cell
Of plastic mesh, a basket known too well
It wept with such a hopeless, helpless air,
(Hey, a talking pen would make YOU stop and stare)
It’s little cap was sagging to it’s side
In a puddle of ink tears he sat and cried
Alas, he said, all of my friends are dead
They lay here in this prison cold as lead
They stare at me with small unblinking eyes
And I alone with memory for their cries
Full forty of them perished in the box
Another six succumbed to inky pox
The living few were buried under dead
Their cries filled me with horrifying dread
But with no arms and only with my cap
I could not bring relief, but only slap
The corner of my cage to show I cared
In retrospect I wonder I was spared
But why continue in this bitter state?
Asked I, while looking for $1.48
(the price for him, I swear as I still live
His freedom, I thought it only fair to give)
He answered with a bitter, wrenching moan
“I fear to say my life is not my own
If late tonight Our Savior Bic should come
And with his paper strike me cold and dumb
I would not grieve, I will confess that much
But it is blasphemy to wish for such
With this he stood before me at full length
And gave his creed with the last of his strength
“I will endure the trials of the box,
The basket and the store and inky pox
I will wait patiently til I’m on sale
In clearance bin my courage will not fail
When bought, I will succumb to daily toil
(though I cannot be coerced to write on foil)
I will give substance to the airy dreams
Of poets, (and perhaps get dropped in streams)
I will endure the sonnet poorly writ,
Although I dread to waste ink on such shit
And when my cap is lost and ink runs dry
I’ll pass on to that Bic box in the sky
(and here a tear dropped from his reddened eye)
And there I will meet with the Inky greats!
To meet the fountain pen which wrote for Yeats
To talk with pens who penned some famous tunes
To meet the pen that made it to the moon!
The company of greats I do await
(And now, as it was getting rather late
His story frought with sobs and starts and sighs
More than an hour did his tale comprise
And tho’ I watched attentive and enrapt
The clerks started to think that I was cracked)
Said I, “Dear pen, your fears are almost spent
For deliverance I surley represent.”
With that I gently lifted him aloft
And bought him from the clerk (50 cents off!)
He nesteled in my pocket for the ride
(My jeans display the happy tears he cried)
And till this day we live in harmony
I pen my work, he sings in useful glee
And thus my Ode to pens is nearly done
Tales of courage, woe and hopes are almost spun
And … …. Hey, this ink is getting rather dry
It’s getting hard see this, little guy
O pen, are you about leave me now?
Maybe if I doodle circles… wow
A small reprieve, he’s almost spent, I fear
I must be brief, his end is drawing near
Goodbye fair pen, no more to hear your talk
Goodbye, Your tale I’ll spread, to every place I’ll walk
To tell the world your courage and your pain
And with my feeble voice your tale make plain
“Goodbye” to me he scarcely more than sighed
and with that parting word he quickly
Anyway, whilst I was reading through random files on my computer in an effort to restore some kind of cohrerent order to the mess that is my hard drive (the main problem being that in an effort to save time I name all of my files random collections of keystrokes such as: fdjkwa;, fh;ashdf, or the astrounding filsdvjns [which is what happens when I hit my head on the keyboard] which means that later I have to re-open every file and find out what the heck it was) I came upon this little ditty that I wrote apparently in October of 2001 and thought it might amuse (apparently I am being highly parenthetical this evening - as well as only marginally grammatical - just ignore me)))))))))))).)
To Bic.
I call upon the muses shining bright
To bless my humble Bic with ink tonight
An Ode to plastic pens it is my aim
And with it to procure my certain fame
This Bic, it was a pity purchase, true
From a pencil hawking clerk in vest of blue
I passed the pens reclining in their cell
Of plastic mesh, a basket known too well
It wept with such a hopeless, helpless air,
(Hey, a talking pen would make YOU stop and stare)
It’s little cap was sagging to it’s side
In a puddle of ink tears he sat and cried
Alas, he said, all of my friends are dead
They lay here in this prison cold as lead
They stare at me with small unblinking eyes
And I alone with memory for their cries
Full forty of them perished in the box
Another six succumbed to inky pox
The living few were buried under dead
Their cries filled me with horrifying dread
But with no arms and only with my cap
I could not bring relief, but only slap
The corner of my cage to show I cared
In retrospect I wonder I was spared
But why continue in this bitter state?
Asked I, while looking for $1.48
(the price for him, I swear as I still live
His freedom, I thought it only fair to give)
He answered with a bitter, wrenching moan
“I fear to say my life is not my own
If late tonight Our Savior Bic should come
And with his paper strike me cold and dumb
I would not grieve, I will confess that much
But it is blasphemy to wish for such
With this he stood before me at full length
And gave his creed with the last of his strength
“I will endure the trials of the box,
The basket and the store and inky pox
I will wait patiently til I’m on sale
In clearance bin my courage will not fail
When bought, I will succumb to daily toil
(though I cannot be coerced to write on foil)
I will give substance to the airy dreams
Of poets, (and perhaps get dropped in streams)
I will endure the sonnet poorly writ,
Although I dread to waste ink on such shit
And when my cap is lost and ink runs dry
I’ll pass on to that Bic box in the sky
(and here a tear dropped from his reddened eye)
And there I will meet with the Inky greats!
To meet the fountain pen which wrote for Yeats
To talk with pens who penned some famous tunes
To meet the pen that made it to the moon!
The company of greats I do await
(And now, as it was getting rather late
His story frought with sobs and starts and sighs
More than an hour did his tale comprise
And tho’ I watched attentive and enrapt
The clerks started to think that I was cracked)
Said I, “Dear pen, your fears are almost spent
For deliverance I surley represent.”
With that I gently lifted him aloft
And bought him from the clerk (50 cents off!)
He nesteled in my pocket for the ride
(My jeans display the happy tears he cried)
And till this day we live in harmony
I pen my work, he sings in useful glee
And thus my Ode to pens is nearly done
Tales of courage, woe and hopes are almost spun
And … …. Hey, this ink is getting rather dry
It’s getting hard see this, little guy
O pen, are you about leave me now?
Maybe if I doodle circles… wow
A small reprieve, he’s almost spent, I fear
I must be brief, his end is drawing near
Goodbye fair pen, no more to hear your talk
Goodbye, Your tale I’ll spread, to every place I’ll walk
To tell the world your courage and your pain
And with my feeble voice your tale make plain
“Goodbye” to me he scarcely more than sighed
and with that parting word he quickly
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