Folded neatly by your side, I wait through courses served with pride. I save your clothes from every stain, though I myself won’t stay the same.

They say, I am mightier than the sword It’s true, but only if the enemy can read.

I bind and mend with a sticky embrace, sealing secrets in a silent race. My roll spins round with adhesive grace, holding things in their rightful place.

A type of desk A Beatles song A Beatles album A Beatles movie

I am the final breath of a roaring fire A grey, soft ghost that cannot tire I am light enough to fly on the wind Yet I mark the place where the tree has sinned I am both the end of the flame And a tall strong wood that shares my name