The rainforest didn’t die,
for run on rambles that lack rhythm.
Don’t kill her for drivel with no depth and no sense of self.
The trees of the Amazon are like nothing you or I have ever seen,
gentle green leaves that glow with glittering spines under magical moonlight.
The trees are homes,
family and friends,
it’s a scandal for them to be vandalised by the pretentious, broken rhymes of great pretenders.
My voice is cheerful but cynical,
heartfelt but hypocritical,
and if you tear apart the trees,
you just might hear it crying out into the night,
but, at least it’s mine.
When I run through the rainforest,
collecting leaves to carve my name upon,
at least I’m honest,
and will destroy them with my own dastardly ideas,
instead of soaking them in salt water and milk,
to remove Nayyirah Waheed’s signature.