My right hand man rest in my left How generic our poetry be A pen named Ed is all I got Cause he a crazy friend to me But sometime Ed, he make be mad He make me sour, he make me bad When I try to tell him off Ed he only scorn and scoff I never leave my pens you know Not for love or even money I think my Ed has got me figured He no longer smart or funny Oh he writes and I believe it When my hand does Ed deceive it Now Ed he gone for nice utensil I now adhere to Bill, my pencil