You know that bit of waxy paper between the lid and the buttery spread? What’s that all about?
I am the paper that sits on top of your spread.
I’ve seen that look upon your face, you often scratch your head.
I know you want to discard me, throw me in the bin,
but you don’t know my purpose, to chuck me’d be a sin.
So I’ll sit here getting crinkled, oily and unloved.
til the time you drop me on the floor
and decide enough’s enough.