The Execution

Here they come the frequent trespassers of this terrain in their tattered truck The heavy black boots step down Their helmets on and safety glasses their ear muffs thick face shields and Kevlar chaps Forward they march with calculated steps There she stood – a lone giant Lizzab tree an old green fortress – as the gang approached They sized her up they measured and marked and then the keen chainsaw whirring whining grinding until the mountains quivered with dread at the cracking the crashing the crunchy bone breaking