A Sycamore's Demise

I am one of the oldest trees around. My roots grow aggressively and deep in the ground. I am a sycamore, most regal and proud. My branches so high I can touch a cloud. I'm usually found near wetlands and streams. My thirst is unquenchable, or so it may seem. I've weathered many seasons, endured the test of time, but recently my roots grew into your sewer lines. I witnessed the crane pulling up on our street, now bringing me down will be a true feat. I'm now shackled in ropes which I find quite appalling, the whining chain saws, my branches now gnawing. The solemn neighbors gather in the side yard. My trunk succumbs and hits the ground hard. My aging stump is all I'll convey as my decimators climb in their trucks and drive away.