The Murder

It's always a pleasure to ride past you,
To see those great emerald locks
Rustling around in the wind
And that amazing chestnut pattern
So perfect on your clothes
It stands out so beautifully
Yet it hides there all alone

Bringing the thunder the biojacks charge through
I hear the screaming voices,
But there’s nothing I can do
I smell the oil leaking,
Just to fuel these monstrous machine.
To do their evil bidding
Would be torture nonetheless

But they still continue with blood on their hands
And a grin on their face
All this murder
Just for that ‘green paper’
I sigh reluctantly and walk away
No amount of ‘green paper’
Will replace the trees we lost today.