We scrape and sigh, we make it do.
BIC Cristal Original Ballpoint Pens.
An icon, they cry, used and adored,
Great worth for coin, a prize explored.
Five stars emblazoned, loud and clear,
Yet "NO!" my soul, consumed by fear.
We scrape and sigh, we make it do,
Instead of fresh, a worn-out hue.
In halls of learning, what a blight,
Most souls are sheep, lost in the light.
They follow blindly, path unmarked,
A herd compelled, their spirits stark.
The reasons known, why children tread,
Not a desire, but a dread.
But not here, social critique I write,
A comment this morn, this 'disposable' blight.
My son, a world apart, he seems,
Autistic soul, caught in his dreams.
Not of the farm, nor worldly strife,
Arguably, not this life.
These pens, a horror, oh, the shame!
Plastic's dominion, a fiery flame.
Fossil's cruel grip, no chance to mend,
Centuries linger, without end.
Landfills groan, a choked despair,
Ecosystems gasp for cleaner air.
For Mother Earth, we strive to shield,
Yet such a legacy, they yield!
He barely touched, this tool of ink,
No laurel crowned, no honour wink.
Just detention's sting, a bitter taste,
The school's neglect, a wasteful haste.
Recycling's plea, unheard, unseen,
A silent cry, a barren scene.
Bic, they boast, for ages known,
Trusted by millions, on their throne.
A super-disposable lie they spin,
To jot a list, where do we begin?
But hey! Their razors, a plastic tide,
Billions dumped, where futures hide.
A century's sleep, in earthly tomb,
Carbon's embrace, a gathering gloom.
Manufacturing's toll, a planet's sigh,
Microplastic whispers, as pollutants fly.
Let them decide, if trust takes flight,
Or if they've led us to the night.
The Cristal, classic, world's best seller,
A boast it is, a hollow feller.
"NF Environment Certified," they claim,
Reducing carbon, a whispered name.
But still, the scars, the wounds remain,
Their products' cost, a lingering pain.