Writer and Writer: graphomania
He found a pencil in his crib,
He picked it up, commenced to scrib-
He soon moved on to pens and “crans”—
Oh, so much writing filled his plans!
Computers, next, were on his list—
And when they failed, he got so pissed
He threw his laptops at the wall.
That’s too bright—no, not at all.
He died with pencil in his hand.
The floods of writing he had planned
Would stay unwritten throughout time
While he transmuted into slime.
(I know. I know. A little grim.
But so it did transpire with him.)