Whose woods are these?
I guess, I’ll never know.
His house might be in Portland . . .
He wouldn’t care to know
That I pedal past his trees
And marvel at the way they grow
Line after golden line of leaves
March toward the paper-mill
Over the hill, to become a bill
Or a flier that gets thrown away
It seems such a disgrace
To force chaos from a forest
And grow cottonwoods
Just for waste.