Trampled underfoot, I grow weary each day,
Unable to breathe; got nothing to say.
Creaking and groaning, my skin gets caught in their gears,
Roots disrupting their movements; they shed their crocodile tears.
And the children, they do what they can,
Standing strong against the legions of man.
In flames it goes, crumbling to the ground,
Populations reduced to woe; crackling of flames is the loudest sound.
Growing up through the slabs, bursting right on up,
Running, running, they go along,
Not so tough, not so strong,
I’ve just plain had enough.
Plenty of dirt, for the bodies that will fall.
An abundance of food for the children that walk and crawl.
Them vines and branches and dirt mounds will tear them apart,
But that’s ok; they ain’t got anything resembling a heart.