Ah, pencils! Welcome, trusted friends!

You ready bearers of our thoughts

who sometimes break, but never bend

intentions; you who take your lot

verbatim, leaving us to judge

what to cut and what to keep;

the willing ones who, at our nudge,

would scribble words without a bleep

or turn and wipe the work away;

you dear, dear things who do not sneak

and change the words without our say,

presuming greater wit; the meek,

whom this age cannot understand,

you have a place here—in my hand.