I hear the loggers come for me.
And who knows what I next shall be?
A table and chairs, a wagon red,
A desk, a stud, or Murphy bed,
The spars of a kite, flying high,
Looking down to see what I can spy,
Or a boat sailing merrily on a stream,
While boaters sat within me dream,
Or campfire burning in the night,
My sparks rising up to meet the stars’ light.
Any of these I suppose I might be,
I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
But one request, I beg of thee.
I know that paper I might be.
Whether newsprint on which you print the news,
Or paper towels to clean up refuse,
Or perhaps a student working into the night
Might with typewriter on me write—
Toilet paper I might be!
But this one thing I ask of thee:
PRINT NOT KILMER’S POEM ON ME!