Portions of their own brains,
Which they've failed to use anyway.
Clarity of their own lungs,
A bit of which would have remained till this day.
Oxygen in their own blood,
For which they better now be ready to pay.
Relief in their own eyes,
Given the retina display.
Variety to their own ears,
As birds and squirrels and bats will be at bay.
And there's a lot more of such meaninglessness to say,
But idiots will never know,
As they keep cutting away-
The trees that completed their lives in a cyclic play.
