A Bad Workman Complains of his Tools

This Pen of mine is simply grand,
I never loved a pen so much;
This Paper (underneath my hand)
Is really a delight to touch;
And never in my life, I think,
Did I make use of finer ink.

The Subject upon which I write
Is everything that I could choose;
I seldom knew my Wits more bright,
More cosmopolitan my Views;
Nor ever did my Head contain
So surplus a supply of Brain!