Oh my sweet steely friend, how your edges bend and curve at the tips,
your bent hips, form a grip,
to hold in place, the face, of each page I flip,
from the front of my book, you make a trip,
ever so slowly from page to page, you slip,
counting ardently, so not, a plot, line I miss,
Each page is crisp, till you are done with,
now they seem so tattered, so ripped,
bent out of shape, and snipped,
oh my paperclip,
as a book mark, I realise thou art too harsh,
to clasp, with care, something so dear and close to my heart,
I need something flat, more vast,
for every page you pass….lays in ruins,
what I am doing? to continue using,
this tiny sharp paperclip,
as a book mark, thou art ill equipped,