Trees, fuck em'

Down,
down at the bottom 
of that pit less
organ you call
your stomach
you all have 
taken
or
thought
about the mere fact
that there's
one thing 
in the soulless 
trench whom we've 
named Earth
which controls our
"meaningless lives."

A piece of fucking paper.
That kind of off-forest green,
torn up, and passed around
slice of priceless paper.
A tree in the form of a 
rectangle shocks our eyes 
with sexual, vengeful
appeal every single day 
of our withering lives.
Could it be the 
face that we've 
memorized off of 
Mount Rushmore
that makes us 
believe for even a second
that our taste could possibly 
be a bit more 
lavish.

A piece of fucking paper.