Your body filled with a dreadful chill,
Stared at your desk, and the white old quill.
Windy night, the quill moved slight,
You turned the switch, seeking light.
No light came, the bulb was dead,
You thought of going back to bed.
Suddenly noticed, quill moved slight,
You approached, with all your might.
Not the wind, window was closed,
Heart raced, a message exposed.
You read in horror, ink was red,
“Not the wind, go back to bed!”