In days of yore, a fool began his quest,

To wield a quill, a task of great renown,

But his left hand led to an awkward jest,

As true mischief caused his spirits to frown.

With iambic pentameter, he fought,

Each line, a battle, syllables in rhyme,

His left-handed scribbles became his thought,

And ink's rebellion mocked his fleeting time.

"Oh quill, why must thou snap in such disdain?

Mine inkwell, why dost thou betray my plight?"

The fool, in anguish, cried a loud refrain,

His folly echoed through the murky night.

       Alas, his words were left to dance askew,

       A jumble of letters lost in ink's hue.