If trees could speak, they’d scream.
Their brethren die for the business man
And with them, everything.
The world is slowly turning
From green to gray --
From leaves to metal,
And we lose precious sources of oxygen.
Soon the business man will charge
For each breath we take
In his concrete jungle.
Thousands of years
Of exposure to the elements
Mean nothing as they topple to the ground
And become the paper on which I write,
And on which the business man wipes his ass.