A No. 2 Pencil's Fallen Glory

Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done
Without regard, sagacity, for a thousand years they’ve used me,
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

I was good enough to tuck behind your ear, sub as a mock-up gun
But those days are over and you’ve sailed on to another sea
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done

Stubby me with Susan, you and your teenaged son
Recording par or eagle, maybe an exultant bogey
Still, like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

It’s all electronic now. How posh, exuberant! How fun!
Bah! When batteries wear out, erode, where will you be?
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done

Pencil sharpeners in every class room, those were the days, now none
Can be found, tossed out with Dick and Jane and baby Sally
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.

Laptops, computers, Jello-green monitors, screens—they’ve won
I’m useless, bent, a discarded possession. Are you happy?
Somehow it has come to this, even after all I’ve done
Like slate and chalk, a paper journal, rejected; I feel your shun.