Our pens,  like the accursed demons of Troy,  write like mad. 

Their rolling stunts mesmerise the readers so clad. 

Their productions remain a landmark to behold. 

They kidnap the minds turning the reader less bold. 

This magic,  writing,  surpasses all knowledge of wizardry.

Writings describe the writer in his original pedigree. 

Like mad  people,  we reason and write. 

Often we leave no stone unturned on site.

We write of happy and sad moments. 

Nothing written never  ever ferments. 

The joy we feel is realized in the pen. 

We discuss our happiness in the open. 

We tell it with expertise and much pride. 

All who care will happily on this bandwagon ride. 

Like mad  people,  we reason and write. 

Often we leave no stone unturned on site.

Sadness is felt deeply in what we type. 

The words weep more than mourners of a type. 

Our tears drip in numerical eleven on our face. 

The competition is who wins in the weeping race. 

We have waited with mourners in a funeral. 

Finally we have typed for final results overall. 

Like mad  people,  we reason and write. 

Often we leave no stone unturned on site.

We have taught more than teachers of law. 

Never in life have we lay down and so low. 

Our writings on the wall speak loud and clear. 

Grafitti we have put on the wall for all read and hear. 

Like Shakespeare, we live on after death. 

We live on when down in the grave we lie after our last breath. 

Like mad  people,  we reason and write. 

Often we leave no stone unturned on site.