I dance on pages, bright and loud, A neon whisper, bold and proud. I never write, yet mark the way, Pointing out what must stay. I kiss the lines you shouldn’t miss, With glowing strokes of scholarly bliss. Not quite a pen, not quite a writer, What tool am I, that shines much brighter

I wear the sun in springtime bright, A puff of stars by day or night. Make a wish and set me free I’ll ride the wind, then vanish

Bow to me, I’ll scream a key, The devils bet: a soul, for me. I sit on shoulders, held by neck. Not vile as Lin, but the same respect.

I come in many forms But my main rule remains true: With my bubbles and my pictures I’ll tell a story for you

I am used on the slopes, the waves and the street. I head corporations, non profits and schools. In a game of my type, the walk with my name can be pricey. Don’t misspell me or you’ll lose interest.