The pencil starts out as a piece of wood,
life is sweet, life is good.
Until man comes and chops down the tree,
who endures the pain, silently.

Then the wood goes to a factory,
it’s then manufactured quickly.
But it’s not happy and good,
for this remnant, of the wood.

Then they’re shopped off for our use,
but they must be ready for our abuse.
Biting and Scraping, and sharpening too,
What can this poor pencil do!

At last the pencil is at its final stand,
thrown away by our cruel hand.
It now never sees its nephew or niece,
all it can do now, is rest in peace.