Bounced a few times and rolled away
The incline of my desk was the glue
Of such unwarranted display of dismay
I should have corrected that one foot
Upon which the table seemed to swivel
Now if to even regret is a point moot
I rather not whine and promptly chisel
I loved the incline though, I must say
For the spilt ink of tears would roll off
It had kept the wood pristine in its sway
Now these beads look to me and scoff
Maybe the table needs a fix, I see
And a carpenter could get this fee
But I have given up strins to bead
I rather get some sleep when I get free
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