Whether 'tis nobler in the hand to ache
The word and count of tedious assignments,
Or to pluck thoughts from a harvest of men
And, by pasting, print them. To type, to cry-
No more- and by a cry to say we end
The Spell-check and the thousand Wikipedia searches
That grades are heir to- 'tis a red pen
Devoutly to be feared. To highlight-to copy
To copy, perchance to create. Ay, there's the catch,
For in that copy of text what creations may come,
Must click print. There's the danger
That makes writing of so long papers,
For who would bear the failing grade and detainment of time
Th' criminal's mistake, the teacher's scorn,
The breath of better writers, the law's wrath,
The oval of office, and the society
That festers delight of th' moral corruptions,
When you yourself might your words inspire
With a lead pencil? Who would words vaporize,
To wake and continue under a midnight moon,
But the dread of deadlines.
The stolen vowels from whose unknown
No dignity returns, deleting the truth
And makes villains of us all,
And thus the delicious nature of writing
Is whited over with the quick copy-paste of lethargy
And evils of great mass and body
With this warning your actions taint you
And lose the name of credibility.- Keep you here,
The fair truth. -size-twelve-Times-New-Roman, in thy beauty
Be all my thoughts mine.
