I was celebrated as a divine tool, man,
for your every walk of life, I was your spirit,
I was your backbone, I was your home-mate,
and I was your pal of all pals, right!
For daily mundane in the kitchen, a diary
the homemaker keeps scribbling the need;
me her brother helps her not to be weary,
and lists her items, that she couldn't avoid.
Writers vomit their ideas with my help,
and they carry preciously wherever they go;
winners gain me as gifts and me myself
lie with them in my new golden garb.
Office people, train-ticket examiners, doctors
and none are absent in my counting column,
farm workers and their masters keep records
and I assist them and that is solemn.
Delightfully I lie or sleep in pockets
of intellectuals and pupils; for me people
wanted yonder a good place like sockets
that got their recent shape in their apparel.
I was offered serene places for my rest
and now I am given, rather thrown at
corners or even dirty bins for my last rest
and I am left in an unnoticeable spot.
Alas! All my celebrity status has vanished,
the cruel computers and phones encroached on
to my compound and I am being far-chased;
I, your PEN, see my demise, losing the state sacred.
