A postcard tried today to run

From inevitable oblivion,

Sneaking out the back way while

Heading to its coffin file,

Like a carrier pigeon out of jail

Trained to post itself airmail,

And who can blame it for decamping -

The possible result of stamping -

Its very nature was to air

The urgent meaning it might bear, 

To flaunt its second-hand apparel,

Not hide its light inside a barrel:

But, despite its elegant endeavor

(a warning to the extra cleaver)

It ended up inside a drawer - 

The role it was intended for:

We leave the same as we begin,

As bits of postage in the bin.