My Parched Pen
My fountain pen began to moan,
The thirsty little thing,
My fountain pen began to groan,
For me, some ink to bring...
I filled my fountain pen once more
And heard it burb with glee,
So I got ready to outpour
Some brand new poetry...
I wonder, do we moan as well,
When parched just like my pen?
Or do we hide inside our shell
And not raise hell again?
If we don't ask, then we don't get,
Ask hagglers saving cash,
If we don't ask, we'll face regret,
Polite, not acting rash...
That restaurant served tasty food,
We'd no need to complain,
Alas, that poor wine changed the mood,
So should we tip again?
It's up to you! Do what you want!
But I don't tip when sad,
But I will toast the restaurant
Each time that I leave glad!
Consumer rights, consumer needs,
It helps if we are right,
That's when our moaning most succeeds,
When hard to stay polite!
My fountain pen was parched and dry,
So thirsty, so downcast...
Yet now, new poems I can try,
Because I acted fast!
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2013.
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