I’m a lumberjack,
And I’m okay.
Chopping trees as I please
Till it’s free from disease;
My forest that’s mine,
Neither yours nor theirs –
I purchased it fairly,
Passing promises from clan to man
To the axe in my greasy palms,
Slick with blood, sap or sweat,
They have work to do yet.
They’ll always demand,
Buried heads in the sand
Left behind by my kind
As we chop
And we chop
And we chop, chop, chop, chop;
Only when I’m obsolete,
Will you finally say ‘STOP!’
I’ll lay down my tools,
Once that final oak drops
Into the barren ocean of desert
Where only shoe prints remain;
And the boiling blood of ten billion bodies
Can finally ascend to their home up above,
To stare down as one great vile collection;
As the world turns to glass,
Finally see our reflection.
