There I am, a flat chip bag,
Sitting with my friends, not yet a rag,
Of the undiscarded greasy chips,
Which they’ve shovelled past their bulbous lips.
At the end I’m consigned to the bin,
My reincarnation about to begin.
I sit in the trash for what must be days,
More rubbish on top of me in increasing layers.
I’m finally thought of, and to be recycled I go.
Along with my peers to a place we all know.
We’re shredded and cut into lots of little bits,
Then we’re split and thrown into the fire–filled pits.
The whole of me is burning,
Around and around I keep turning,
Oo I think I’m beginning to melt,
Now I know how those chips felt!
When I’m no more than ash, and the fire has died,
It’s then that I realise I’ve been totally fried.
No more chances for me in this lifetime.
I’ll just sit here and write another rhyme…
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