Double-Headed

Swift fell the forest to the clever axe's blade

No shelter left for wing or honeyed glade

The trees had been slow to realize the truth

They kept bolstering the axe in the voting booth 

Too late the forest realized, the tale had been told

Their sanctity uprooted, the land had been sold

This cleaver axe concealed not one face, but two

While one shined a smile, the other cleaved straight through

But the axe, in all of its vanity and glory

Cannot avoid a dreary end to this story

With no trees left to praise its sterling sheen

The axe rusts alone where the woods had once been

They say money doesn’t grow on trees, but that’s not clear cut

If profits stand tall when our conscience remains shut

To vote with our pockets is terribly short-sighted 

For all ground lays bare when the roots are divided