Jack’s fancy was a bungalow,

Nestled quietly near the woods;

A garden and a patio,

A place to store his worldly goods.

A haven close to nature’s heart,

Where he could ponder and could rest;

A spot for music and for art,

And all the things he liked the best.

But pleasure soon began to wane,

As viral traffic pounded past,

And noise from each approaching plane

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There’s no point in denying

Our cherished world is dying.

We’re choking it to death

With ill-considered breath

From factories and cars;

Soon sympathetic stars

Will weep at our demise

And curse our leaders’ lies.

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