I am a tree
cut me down please.
Though it pain me
as fibres shred,
it is better
to fall and die
than to be used
in some teen's tired
Metaphor.
Make me paper.
Just don't let kids
write "poems" on me.
In our pride, we raise up again
the cities' towers of Babel,
but god,
confusing tongues,
grinds
cities to pasture. p.IIA Cloud in Trousers by V. Mayakovsky