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MY SON'S SON TO HIS SON'S SON - PERHAPS, by                    
First Line: See that lovely, stately thing!
Last Line: And write of trees.
Subject(s): Grandchildren; Pine Trees; Grandsons; Granddaughters

See that lovely, stately thing!
Once a poet sweet did sing
About its beauty rare!

Those were days, O son of mine,
When that tree -- they call the pine --
Grew as thick as this dark dust
That's in the air!

And someone thought it would be fine
To take the trees, they call the pine,
And make silk hose --

Like magic, cities soon were built,
They played the project to the hilt --
But hold your nose!

The pulp mills where they make all these
Do scent the air and spoil the breeze,
But other things
That people seem to think they need
Are made; like magazines to read,
That culture brings.

So fell the trees that sheltered birds;
We make pulp for the printed words,
And write of Trees.

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