The Poet's Pen Poem by Harshita Chaudhary

With this thing,
A poet can sketch,
The beauty of trees and rain,
This thing is main,
Without this thing, it looks,
As if an ice-cream is without smack,
Or the brain with a crack.

So, this thing you ken,
It's the poet's precious pen.

Thoughts are unlimited,
But my brain's cerebrum is limited,
So there's a need to express,
My pen which is so kind,
Does it for me, it's a must
Without my dear pen,
My mind would have burst.

So, this thing you ken,
It's the poet's precious pen.

So, I think that every poet gives compact,
To this fact,
That half of the credit for their tact,
Goes to the pen,
With which a poet,
Can describe the secret lion's den,
Or the funny movements of a hen.

So, this thing you ken,
It's the poet's precious pen