The tree stood.
Now a memory of a bygone time;
A survivor of what we so greatly misunderstood,
And a victim of our antediluvian crime;

In our quest for material happiness;
We will let none stand in our way.
Yet no matter how far we go, there is no progress;
And Mother worries, we will stray.

For she asks a hollow, unanswered question, that drifts upon the air;
And as she does, holy Mother Wild, cries for us.
But one need not answer her desperate prayer;
Our mother, Wild, gone, I must profess.

We found caring such a bore;
We made it so none need answer her anymore.