A long time ago pens were for people who could write
A countryside craft for his nibs

Now, Biro’s spill out of draws like twigs
From the great tree of knowledge, maybe

The biro was made for poetry by everyone and anyone
Poems were born from them like raindrops on a window

The biros, common as fingers on branches
Where people sit composing posies like apple blossoms

The biro in a packet of ten – red, blue, black and green
A glacier of biros slowly melting into the sea of humanity

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