Stumps with a barreness as far as the eyes could see High pitched whine followed by bloody curdling screams Not a hint of green, or life, or love, or daylight The Saw mill stands alone on a grey slate precipice No more men or bad jokes over black coffee & timecards The ghost of development now's automated by depravation The roof's covered by wingless sleeping birds, preening And ahead lies a suburbia fashioned from worker's flesh Water tower reads "Forest of Modernization", Hatesville Winnebagos Pontoons Jetskys Watercrafts Swimmingpools And filthy bird baths Audaciously uncentered between the mailbox & inevitability.