The Writer

A man of learning loved to write
It gave him pleasure and delight,
As in a fever he was gripped
Compiling his prolific script.

He wrote while standing on one foot
Then wrote about it in a book,
And when that book was in it's cover
He'd change his foot and write another.

His writing was so microscopic
That he could write on any topic
On the smallest kinds of things,
Like postage stamps and heads of pins
While on his finger nails well-bitten,
Were silly rhymes that he had written.

He hardly had an inch of skin
Where something wasn't written in.
To see him standing in the nude
You'd think perhap's he'd been tattoo'd
And you could read him like a book,
Should he let you take a look.

Some areas of his annotations
I'll leave to your imaginations,
But I have seen a jaunty line
Traverse the contours of his spine,
Detour his neck, streak to his heart,
To greet an exclamation mark!
And there were tales around his wrists
Like bangles filled with asterisks,
While every little squirm or wriggle
Exposed a tiny scrawl or scribble.

Sky-writing was a later fad,
His memory then was getting bad.
He stopped the 'plane to dot an i
And tumbled from the word filled sky.

Well after all, he'd had his time
And written down his final line.
His friends were sad and wore black cloth,
But finally, they wrote him off.