Stopping Again

These woods belong to one I know.
They say he has a tumor though;
he won’t be down to interfere,
not in this infernal snow.

He needs the money right enough,
but so far he’s been hanging tough;
his kids, of course, are hot to sell,
we’ll let the reaper call his bluff.

We build the boxes, build the dream
that builds suburban self-esteem.
The more you build, the more you make,
so we can pipe that little stream,

move these trees out of the way.
Lumber’s selling high today,
and there’s the bank and hell to pay,
and there’s the bank and hell to pay.