Here I wait for fall to come,

As the clock runs short

The trees finally succumb.

They bend, undress, and contort,

Their bark will be seen,

By all on earnings reports.

By Loggers who are too keen,

By teens all too young.

Bye teens, for the land does wane.

Smog shat out like rotten dung,

As the machines toil.

Spoiled air for Earth’s Iron Lung.

Oil leaks into the black soil,

As the Oceans start to boil.

Here I wait for the Fall to come.

When the land will be undone.