Close to my house a tea tree stands
With bark of paper so it seems,
That can be peeled in sheets and strands
And gathered up in reams and reams.
As paper this stuff fits the bill
And writing on it is a treat.
Its cost is very close to nil;
The tree replaces every sheet.
This bark I’m sure became the page
When literary skills arose
And every wise old native sage
With charcoal pen was writing prose.