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I wrote this with a quill you know,
to give it a sense of old romanticism,
and perhaps embue it with a feeling of shelley.
Thats Mr Shelley by the way,
not that monstrous woman, so famous for sewing
bits of words together to create a monster.
Though I have been a monster,
who would argue with that?
But the monsters quill broke at the tip you see,
leaving a large ink blot that covered your name,
and left a further blot on my already evercrowded
copybook.
Ah, but I left my spare one in your room,
in case I had need of a tool to impress you with my prose.
Oh I know that's what I call it now,
but I also call it being prepared.
Never mind though,
at least I still have lead in my pencil.