Two-Ply

Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink, rolls and sings to the touch of fingers on its faintly-scented folds, giving miles of pleasure to soft seats on hard covers all in the name of modern convenience which sure is a change from old catalog sheets housed in quarter-moon outhouses on homesteads. Two-ply greets us in grocery stores, all the pretty ones sit on the front row, purring at our squeeze test, begging to be brought home, heaven forbid if you buy the plain, all-white single-ply which sits on the bottom shelf looking forlorn because of its unscented homeliness. Two-ply dies a million deaths each day, lost in the vortex of flushed toilets, killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance, headed to the deep and dark sewers waiting to be processed in the jaws of the sewage treatment plants which do not discriminate against the bland, anorexic and hard-to-the-touch