I have an ink that seems to never run out.
It fosters the young fountain, ballpoint, and gel
Even the quill bears witness to its discipline
Endlessly, in their minds, the ink stains.
Fountain, my dear founty — elegant and profound,
Delicately polished skill and practice.
Boys and girls in uniforms take their time,
As this ink awaits, they rise in content.
Gel! Oh, gelly! Bursting hues and blues,
In vibrant shades, you scribble this sacred space.
Inks spill and design learning scenes,
Oh how you make this ink ooze in a gush!
Hey, ballpoint! Ever reliable and practical,
This ink moves with you no matter how blotchy you may be,
Still, your lines thrive in reliable teaching schemes
Until it’s apparent in your design, convenient and concise.
A quill, an ancient tool of craft,
Ink’s wise ghost from the distant past, perhaps.
Legibly with your feathers, words were artfully spun,
Ink flows, guiding pens until the day is done.
Ink, my oh my, ever the source of content,
The pen stamps onto paper.
This ink serves as the wellspring of wisdom,
This pen grasps knowledge from its depths.
Ink intricately transfers expertise,
With the stamps and hopes that it won’t fade.
These pens are the scions of their wisdom,
Carrier of the ink’s permanent mark.