Dad Poet Society

We’d like to damn for all your dams and track your hunters down
and drag your drunken culture from each village, camp, and town.
We’d like to drive your highways cold straight to the gates of hell.
We’d like to cut one gussak down for every tree you fell.

But we won’t. We can’t. It’s now too late. We both know that is clear.
We can’t live off the vanished game we caught with vanished spear.
We can’t reset an empty net for salmon that have fled.
We cannot burn for warmth the woods from trees that now are dead.
We’ll patronize technology, filled full of inner strife
that grows when man gives way his soul for an easy, wasted life.