Conversation With A Logger

“Why don’t you get a job?” he spat; face a twisted sneer.
“I’ve got a job,” I answered; “that’s what I’m doing here.”
“You’re on the dole!” he argued; “My tax keeps you alive.”
“My job” I said; “is why I’m here; to help us all survive.”
Dismissively, he walked away; his laugh a cruel reply.
He’s off to earn his daily pay, and help the planet die.
He turned beside his 4X4; one last comment to make
Standing proud, he raised his fist, his voice began shake.
Echoing across the coupe; his voice rang loud and clear;
leaving quaking in its wake, a forest cowered in fear.
“Well when we get right down to it, we’re better dead than green”
and I stood mute amidst the wreckage; where a forest had once been.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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