I am from the Birch and Pine,
my brothers and I--a single frame.
Some labeled two and others nine,
they call our home an assembly line--
We are clothed in Orange and Blues,
and shaved from end to end,
and used to report the news,
and lost like worn out shoes--
Our purpose is never made clear--
children break us with a Snap!
but that is not my greatest fear,
for we grow shorter year by year.
They wear us out, such evil Men--
press us hard against their desks.
We never really expect it when,
our faces crack again and again--
Wooden remains are all tossed away,
the hour of lead--as Dickinson would say.
Behold! retribution for literary slaves,
Men will be sharpened to their graves.