O Thumb, Ye Modern Pen, Ye Dripping wet and tangy, Are thee fingers dipped in dye. In cavern walls all-moldy, Men doth paint and leave to dry. Then men doth learn of fire, Of forge, of steel, of wheel, of words. Then ink doth dance on paper, "the pen is mightier than the swords!" But men doth learn of more, Of circuits, chips, and strands of wire. Then pens prevailed no more; Thumbs dance on screens of great desire.
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