As he swung his axe,
“You’ll kill that tree, you swine”
“How can you say that
You abominable brat,”
Said Max with scowl and a whine,
“This tree has completed eighty years and more.
It’s old and it’s gnarled and it’s sore.
“They’ve chopped off its root,
Which was one way to suit
Their need to spread asphalt and tar.
"This tree is quite dead,
Get that in your head.
When it falls it won’t fall very far."
"In eighty plus years,
It has shielded our fears
From the wind and the rain and the sun.
"Now the tree has no role
In this place with no soul
There’s no rustling, no swaying, no fun.
"This isn’t a game
I’m ending its pain
This giant has done its time
"Move along little fellow
There’s no need to bellow
And for Chrissakes don’t call me a swine.”
© Bevinda Collaco 2004