By Ellie Taggart
Paper is priceless or at least that’s what we say,
But when it’s green and processed through a machine it turns the other way,
There is a price for paper and it is written on the back,
Banks collect and hoard it, and corrupt companies hijack,
We believe that it can help us breathe, improve our quality of life,
That it will help us see and hear, make our thoughts and dreams rife,
We think that it can build us mountains- no escalators- to the sky,
And when we get close it’s not enough, no money will ever get us that high,
So, we strap green paper to our arms and flap up and up and up,
So, we try to fly, despite the lies, we have no backup,
And the sun burns through our wings of green, our security, our pride,
Until we consider on the descent, the truth of force fed lies,
We put power in coloured paper and yet we do not see the mess,
Until we’ve bought all we could buy, or we fall down from our nest,
Paper’s worth and importance lies in its colour’s numbered cry,
So, when people say that paper’s priceless, you now know that that’s a lie.
