The Period, by Richard Armour

Fat little period, round as a ball,

You’d think it would roll,

But it doesn’t

All all.

Where it stops,

There it plops,

There it stubbornly stays,

At the end of a sentence

For days and days.

“Get out of my way!”

Cries the sentence.”  “Beware!”

But the period seems not to hear or care.

Like a stone in the road,

It won’t budge, it won’t bend.

If it spoke, it would say to the sentence, “The end.”

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