I am the "Telegraph", left on a seat,
A man comes along and lifts up his feet.
He pulls me around him, to keep himself warm,
And then goes to sleep, not to wake until morn.
I am the "Mirror", all smelling of chips,
The owners of which are smacking their lips.
Then along comes the man with aches and pains,
And he picks at me, to seek the remains.
I am the "Guardian", surrounding a cabbage,
Dropped accidentally from a bundle of baggage.
The man appears and stops to investigate,
He kicks at me and I fall down a grate.
I'm the "Observer", blown up in a tree,
It's me who has seen all these things to see,
And here comes the man, ragged and thin,
Up to his usual? Yes, searching the bin.
C. Marchant 3B.
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