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.