Chainsaw engines roar The smoke lay thick Over the timber
A noise silence the buzz The crazed wood pop And it crashes to the ground Leaving a poignant whirlwind Of a defining emotion
Feel it on
Feel it on
The omens to come
One out of a thousand Solitary boles
Left on dirty ground
Like heads nailed to the prow
A head would fit each bole
As a part of a sinister pop art display It's a defining charade
Feel it on
Feel it on
The omens to come