Thousands of trees are cut
To fulfill the wants of a greedy gut
You want fresh breeze from dusk to dawn
But to build your buildings you want them gone
Quench your thirst from that water that's plastic bottled
For this, poor mother earth is throttled
Treasures we store for times to come
Forests are cut down to get our furnitures done
With this selfish motive if we continue to flare
We'll be left with no oxygen in air.
