The slippery piglet, clear across the way,
has had my tree cut down.
He rang a man who rang a man who knew
a big-boned, broad-backed chap, the type of clay
that stood in red in line at Waterloo.
It took eight hours to knock King Boney down,
and more than thirty years to rear my tree;
but only fifteen dental seconds flat
for that, fat, jelly-baby-faced
pornocrat to have it stapped.
     Now I can see his house;
a snot-brown, lie-priced, isometric blob,
smack in the middle of my laureate eye.
A yawning house, a stealthily maintained,
and as (God stop his heart) he skives abroad,
a semi-empty house, his swap, who had my tree’s
shoulders that made the evening summer breeze
hiss like a milky night-tide up the sand
cut down to save his garage.
    Its roots were getting at his garage.
His garage was endangered. Furthermore,
come autumn, when the bronzed wing in, his car
might get its chrome trim splashed with flock.
    What can I do?
twice twenty thousand square in legal blue
behind the leaves that bear his signature
and all my leaves away.