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I have a pen that drips the words Upon a peice of paper white All I do is pick it up And on my paper it does write The words will form before my eyes As passive I do stare This pen in hand upon the pad Begins to form a story there Sometimes it is a story sweet With lovers wanting more and more While other times it tells a tale Of solitude and woe I never know just what I'll get When in my hand I take This magical writing instrument What stories will it make By Sheila Lynn Michigan, USA  
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