This is such a waste, of paper:

I jot down all these words

That may never get published

But I do not dare throw them out

Because I'd be losing a part of me

This paper is not destined to be recycled

So I'm wasting all this paper

I've murdered another tree

And all the creatures in it

This poem doesn't even rhyme

So the ignorant population won't like it

I don't really care, because I write this for me

And I just waste too much paper

If the environmentalists hear of this

They might picket in front of my house

And since this poem lacks flavor

(other than the flavor of wasted paper)

No one will want to read it

But those sorrowful souls face the terrible tragedy

Of missing my great display of wasted paper.