SEYMORE C. WRIGHT Seymore took his feather pen And began writing in his book Covering up one page with his hand Fearing somebody'd look There's no one 'round for miles But that's not what Seymore thought As he dipped his pen twice In the bottle of ink he bought Seymore scribbles quickly A long line across the page Nearly off the edge of it And way out of range Then he stops to ponder it Sticking pen end in mouth His lips now spotted with ink With the bottom one sticking out The hours pass on by him As he thinks and writes his words Of things he won't show anyone Fearing it's absurd The day now in the wee of night And Seymore yawned in jest With ink stained hands and face He knew it was time for rest So Seymore closed his book And stored it on its shelve Where the other dozen books of his Sat there by themselves