acres of books poor, trees savaged because of their looks and their usefulness to humanity.

Poor trees formed into something that they were not meant to be,

poor trees,

oh, how I revel in your murder with everything that I read,

and I do not feel guilty, but I should really,

and it is the same text upon my computer screen,

and if all books were to stop being produced tomorrow,

I probably would get used to reading them digitally quite easily,

but I guess I am set in my ways,

but a change is good if we are to breathe more easily,

and maybe I will after all, stop taking part in the murder of trees.

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