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There is a little place in a little room

where a little chap hides away amidst the gloom.

Tucks his little legs undermeath a well-worn chair

plucks a piece of paper and attacks at his despair.

A stubby lead pencil scratches through the fears

of every little cruelness that reduces us to tears.

Sharp is the lead but wellis penetrate

all the nooks and crannies that this world creates.

There is so little time for us to stop and look

as he places the cover upon his little book.

There will come a day when this little man will die

and they'll put him in a tiny hole undermeath the sky

His little lead pencel book and chair

will be placed inside a plastic bag and taken who knows where