MY PENCIL 
A many letter you wrote, 
Also a many, many note. 
You, my little pencil, 
In literature you have mingled. 
A great deal of lines 
You have written that rhyme— 
If all of them were true, 
What would you do? 
During the rainy nights 
When I sit up and write, 
In all of your spite 
You give me a little fight. 
You should not be ashamed 
For you are not always to blame. 
When I make a mistake 
It is because I have a headache. 
Well, my dear old fellow, 
You have said a many hello 
hen I have picked you up 
And began to do the stuff 
That appeals to the eyes. 
n your pencil written lines. 
So, now I lie you down to sleep 
Until to-morrow when we meet! 
HUMAN PERFECTION 
Is there a human being pure 
ne who has no faults to cure? 
uch a person does not exist 
sure as we have a fist. 
But some will say it is so, 
Be —— what Be aye Ly are. 
see, on the o 
The difference we have at command. 
A writer brings forth a masterpiece, 
His est that has no defeat. 
This is what he and his followers say, 
But not the compositions from day to day; 
Or one manuscript is better than another— 
Of all, at times, one is the mother; 
we see, all that men do, 
is not perfect, is really true. 
Here we come to a conclusion 
= seeing a human illusion. _ 
ence, nothing is, philosophically, exact. 
For convenience we call a thing a fact. 
In every so-called truth we see a fault 
h causes our comprehension to halt. 
So, about n perfection, let us not worry 
Because at the end we will sorry. 
7e 
