Mirror Ball

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.

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