I used it to sketch undulating peaks of the snow clad mountain,
It willingly obliged; dexterously embossing intricate lines on the canvas of naked paper.
I pressed it to scribble magnanimous lines of English literature,
It did the same at swashbuckling speeds; without flexing my fingers to onerous limits of endurance.
I incessantly chewed its nimble body; while harnessing my mental machinery in
top gear,
It didn't even wail a faint cry; after being thoroughly mutilated with a plethora of indentation.
I used its sharp point; to tickle my friends in the sensitive cartilage of their ribs,
It gratified my desire to tease; without lamenting the loss of its angular tip.
I viciously moved it in spongy mud; engraving mystical designs symbolizing rustic art,
It did so with copious ease; inspite of getting disdainfully dirty with coats of soil.
I revolved it vigorously to stir the sugar in my tea; to commensurate amounts,
It executed the job to meticulous perfection; bearing the tyranny of being scalded by boiling water.
I rubbed it voraciously against itching regions of my scalp; to get reprieve from allergy,
It accepted this preposterous behavior; in the stride of a chivalrous knight.
I rotated it wildly in the breezy atmosphere; rhythmically striking it against a table of polished wood,
It seemed to be unruffled; remaining as stoical as ever maintaining its sordid composure.
I held it articulately to shade vacant avenues of the map topography,
It did so with overwhelming zeal; transforming monotonous white into shades
of enchanting slate grey.
It had served me sumptuously on many a perspiring occasion,
Helped me immensely in my perennial conquest of becoming a writer,
Alas! I had just the capacity to give it a solitary award,
As I chiseled its steel grey mouth manually with a sharpener,
Crisply saluted my friend in times of distress; existing in the compact form of
a lead tipped pencil.
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