323 – Stationary

Poem number 323
My stationary is stationary
It never moves at all
My pencil will not come to heel
No matter how I call
My ruler never moves an inch
My set-square’s set like stone
My fountain-pen is still as death
My rubber sits alone
Sometimes I yearn for stationary
That leaps and bounds in glee
That dances round my table-top
And bounces like a flea
But no, I just have stationary
That’s stationary, instead
So still, inert and boring
That it might as well be dead
So unfair, life, when stationary
That’s fun belongs to fools
Whilst I, the King, am cursed in woe
To own such turgid tools.


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