There stands an old tree, a Sugar Maple by name;
apparently it's a bad one, it is playing a game.
What can it do? It is a tree, you say;
Well, it drops all its leaves and it lets them lay.
All over the yard, where an old lady lives;
she thinks leaves are all that the tree has to give.
She hasn't read The Lorax or The Giving Tree;
why can't she let the tree just be?
This lady wants to cut it, have it all chopped down;
when she peers out her window, all she'll see is bare ground.
Her beloved green grass will be able to grow;
green grass that she'll have to struggle to mow.
It makes me sad, that to her it's just wood,
too many leaves on the ground - all bad, no good.
Raking and raking, all day just a chore;
making her arms and her back very sore.
She doesn't see the orange, the yellow, and red;
a bright canopy of color spread over her head.
The leaves are just litter, piling up high;
one more task to be done with a deep heavy sigh.
Who am I to point fingers? Its not my land.
I am not there to hold the rake in my hand.
It makes me sad that she just can't see,
it isn't all about just this one lone tree.
I told her the planet is going to pot;
some places are too cold, others too hot.
Greenhouse gases, global warming, dying polar bears;
those things don't make her worry or care.
So when Autumn again comes around this year,
the woman will look out her window and cheer.
No leaves on her yard, she'll have one less tree;
one less worry for her, she'll feel more free.
Her yard will be clean, a sea of chemically treated grass;
That damn tree will be gone, the tree that was a pain in her ass.