The Trees

There is unrest in the Forest There is trouble with the trees For the Maples want more sunlight And the Oaks ignore their pleas The trouble with the Maples (And they're quite convinced they're right) They say the Oaks are just too lofty And they grab

It has been otherwise You see them dying now They scratch the sky with there finger-twigs And only rain is quietly to make its steps Leaves like souls are falling down But their death has lost its beauty its eternal It would be new life but now they

I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground and it died without a sound Your skin so pale against the fallen autumn leaves and no-one saw us but the trees Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing Yeah, the trees,