Tip-top, Old Boy, tip-top.
When pen hits paper, it just won't stop.
Rapid ink rushes to fill the blank space.
Yes indeed unending,
And savagely unchaste.
With the ink barely dry, here comes another reply,
'Write me down, you bastard!'
I acquiesce with a sigh.
I can't really blame them.
They simply want to be.
If only to live on paper,
In their own world free from me.
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