Crushed in your hands and squished at your heels
Does it ever sit in the bin looking at the sun?
Taking a smoke thinking “what have I done?”
And the very rain it wipes would soon enough
Through it's feathery self seep is that a bluff?
it will end as pulp after cleaning the mess and stuff
Does it look at its crippled edges and sigh
To the memory of its crisp days gone by?
Really, did it think it was made to be
The ladies pocket companion, sitting pretty
In a corner of, a buckled leather handbag?
To accompany lipstick while she took a drag?
Or in the conditioned air of a shiny car?
Parked besides the beach, doors ajar
Foolish tissue, didn't it know?
It is meant for use and throw?
To soak in tears and extra make up
And dust around her favorite coffee cup
So she is wiped clean by dear tissue thin
And is crushed in a ball and tossed in the bin
Now dear dear tissue don’t you cry
For you got nothing to wipe yourself dry