I put a pen to paper and wrote down a line,
If was all about quality and just how very fine;
There was also a matter of the words that I wrote,
And how it would all turn around and end up a note.
.
I was cooking dinner and writing this and sat while it did cook,
That I could eat veal scaloppini and make something for this book;
In actual fact I am writing of the meat in pen for knife,
And I know it is going to taste just great, my favourite food in life.
.
And as the day had ended and the meal continued on,
I'd awake the next day and morning and feel that it had gone;
I'd wiped it off with paper the meal I now write down,
As the pen was pen and paper and the meat the life of town.
.
And as the day progressed of stories I toiled and fably told,
Of travelling the world and how very much God was gold;
The thoughts I said and mentioned took a period of time,
That yesterday turned to tomorrow and today this poem of rhyme.
.
And the miracle of making of pulp from timber and wood,
To create this piece of paper and put my pen so good;
And I've been around there and back a couple of lonely times,
Where just the faith with Bible could sustain me from the crimes.
.
And the answer to this question of just how it all connects,
Is in the ink on paper that my pen in hand from head selects;
So if you understand what is just the very way it works,
Put your own pen down on paper in poetical rhythmatic words.
.
Signed,
Black and White.
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