The Woods Bellow and Cry

The young oak starts its youth,

Full of hope and full of dreams.

It'll grow into a tall oak, it seems,

But the truth? It will become fifty reams.

The cries of doors and fences can be heard wide.

Each creak is simply just a call for help,

A salty wound reopened saltier than kelp.

Split open its hide and simply forget his yelp.

The sap is so sweet and rich—

Why don't we bottle it and sell it to a farm?

Nothing bad could come of this, of course no harm.

Milk its lich; we can create chairs from his arm.

It doesn’t matter what we do—

He isn’t alive; we hold the autonomy.

Oh boy, I can’t wait to boost up the economy.

Thickened rue, our wallets reach stars brand new to astronomy.

Why, the world is our oyster, boy.

Wipe that frown off your face.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d call you a timber disgrace.

This tree is a prosperous toy, its skin more valuable than lace.

Oh! How the woods bellow and cry.

I apologize, dear forest, but I shan't bat an eye.