A book, hideous and white,
Half way through its fight,
Met a pen, high with might.
It's tip so smooth.
Ink like a soft flute.
It's form, loving and cute.
Now the book had this weired feel,
It thought the pen was here to fill.
But the truth was a bitter pill.
The pen had no mind to fillin,
Quite frankly, any book would pitch in,
It's the book that was crud and juvin.
Worthyness was Illusion that it lived in.
Innocent pen just wanted a time out,
Just a change of pace is what it sought,
The book was delusional, no doubt.
It thought so highly of himself, like a crown,
All it needed was a moment to melt down,
It's just a torn up pile of pages, that should burn down.