Oh, how gleeful your faces
My flat, flimsy companions
Startlingly so, you are
With wide eyes and fanned fingers
Your subjects shall ne'er be
Conscious of your grins
Static til the ink fades and your bodies crumble
For being made of paper
I shall not mourn you when you go
No affection is recognized in your printed eyes
But for the moment you shall live
Among pencils that are more useful than yourselves.
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