My pen has run out of ink.
And into depression it sinks.
We cant cheer him up no matter what we try,
For the ink of the pen has run dry.
No matter how hard we try to grow,
A replacement for him, he let us know,
That we shall never find another so fine,
That can draw a beautiful, solid straight line.
We have searched every store to see what was there,
The pen even came, for he could hardly bear,
The thought of an inferior pen, flowing so grand,
Painting masterpieces, and writing poems about sand.
Yes, the pen has run out of ink,
And he isn’t as useful as he might think,
But we found a replacement, a brother of his,
And this new pen would love to write a quiz.
My good old pen shall be buried today,
And his brother has told me just what to say,
“Tell them of the wondrous things he did,
And make him a plaque with good wishes bid.”
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