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Green Trees Don't Make It
Green Trees Don’t Make It
Everyday
I look out and see
The ugly green trees
Standing guard
in front of my house.
And I think to myself
Who owns the trees?
And what do they think of us?
Are we their friends?
Are we their enemies?
What do the trees think of us?
Do they silently watch us,
Spies to the celestial emperor?
I have pondered this question
Many a morning,
Who is the owner of these trees?
And why do they silently watch us?
I wonder if the trees don't hate us
And why they don't protest.
Every day as we drive back and forth
Emitting poison gases from our mechanical asses
Right into their unprotected faces.
And every night we eat our dinner
And then give the trees
Our polluted leftovers
And laugh as they silently die
From our acidic fallout
Constantly floating down on their skin.
Yes, I wonder about the trees
And the birds and the bees
And everyone else.
What are they thinking?
Are they plotting revenge?
Or are they merely there
Silently, watching, plotting,
Designing fiendish plots of revenge
Dreams of vast nuclear destruction.
Cosmic diseases wiping out everyone in the ass
Oh Yes, I wonder and dream and ponder
What is the meaning of those silent green trees?
Standing on the corner
Quietly condemning us
With their quiet tears, and falling leaves.
In the winter they stand
Naked and alone
Covered with ice-cold snow
As we drive by nice and warm.
And we don't care
As they stand out in the cold
Shivering, plotting
warm plans of cosmic revenge.
Is it too late for us
To become friends with the trees?
Or will the day come
When the trees will wake up
And gather together
All the other slaves of humanity.
I have a vision
One morning I will open the door
And see an army of wild things
Coming to arrest me
For crimes against nature.
And I will plead, I did not know
And they will laugh
and turn me all of my kind
Into silent tombs,
And we will stand out in the cold
Like the green trees
Plotting dreams of revenge
For ever and ever.
Until our day finally comes
And we can go out
and kill all the wild things
Perhaps we already have.
Copyright ©
Jake Aller
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