No pal at school ever called it exciting

Crouched over a desk - doing Copybook writing.

With dip-pen in hand slowly following each letter

Teacher over your shoulder - willing it better.

 

The scratch of the nib across a notebook

Juvenile attempts at a tidy "by rote" look,

With occasional splatterings of wayward ink

To cause a kid to stop and blink -

 

And hastily blot out the spreading blip

Before the stain took a lasting grip.

Spoiling the look of what had been done,

Taking away what was carefully won.

 

But fast-forward the years and I'm childishly glad

That my handwriting now is never called bad

And I've never had any occasion to fall

Into the ballpen disgrace of illegible scrawl

 

But there's this downside of modern life I deplore:

No one writes to anyone else anymore.

Folk these days somehow think that it's cuter

To type their letters on a computer!

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