We lay here in the cold harsh wind,
Which whips at our knobby limbs relentlessly
The excavators plough through the soggy mud
Which laps up at us, daring us to crumple.
The chainsaws bark at us
And tear through our coarse meat,
We are stuck here forever, incapacitated and insecure
No one to sing out to or shout “Help”!
The wildlife clings to our branches
Nowhere to take refuge, no ranches.
The product goes on into the store
All for the business who gets money for murder
They will never stop what they have begun
We sing out in vain to stop what they have done
The savage blades lash out once more
Until there is nothing left, nothing at all.
Aaron Ashby (21st century) Australia
Source: Palm Oil
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