Its breath is fowl
As a dragon's lair
It rushes forward
Taking no care . . .
Like a furnace stoked
With treasures of oak
That ole "Widow Maker"
Crazed wildfire mare
The Bosque burns
As we all watch
Skies blood red . . .
One last dry swatch
It jumps the Rio
And travels on
Burning the Cottons
The Pinions are gone
The habitat lost,
Ecology changed
Ashes yet hot
One question remains
We ask deep inside,
"What can we all do?"
One answer is clear
"We'll plant anew!"