Whose Woods are These
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
They come not from the village though;
From ancient times abided here
Vouchsafed the land through fire and snow.
The other settlers think it weird*
To stop a pipe where no town’s near
Between the mountains, sea and lake
In midst of climate crisis year.
They squawk their anger, heads do shake
Vow their livelihood’s at stake.
The only sound, the Mounty’s sweep
Of Indigenes and other flakes.
Though woods stand lovely, dark and deep
There’s much to do before I sleep,
And broken promises to keep,
And broken promises to keep.
* weird is an imperfect rhyme but the Soup autocensored qu**r
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2020
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