Our Pine Creek Valley Marcellus Shale Gas Industrial Route 44

Trucks rumble and roar up State 44,
Screeching and squealing, rumbling and reeling,
Ending tranquility, ignoring Nature’s fragility—
All through the day, all through the night—
It just isn’t right.

The 18-wheelers, the destruction dealers,
The excavation trucks, such a huge influx,
The pickups painted white, quite a common sight—
The constant noise of the gas business boys.

Drivers blindly stare at our despair—
“We love the honey of the money;
It’s all the pay,” they say—
Their divine bottom line.

“We don’t care what you have to bear,
That the air quakes from our ‘Jake’ brakes,
That the road explodes from our heavy loads,
That we cause you sadness, perhaps even madness.

“We make big bucks driving these trucks;
Our hearts may be cold, but we got the gold;
Your valley we’ll trash for all this cash;
Go ahead and holler! We worship the almighty dollar!

“Our souls are sold, so by you we’ve been told;
Ha! On the level, you think, to the devil?
Bah! We feel no woe, ‘cause we got the dough—
To hell with you and the pain you go through!

“We pollute your air pool with our black diesel fuel;
We maim and kill, on curve and hill,
Any forest beast, from largest to least;
We dump our foul loads, your streams our commodes.”

Trucks rumble and roar up State 44,
Screeching and squealing, rumbling and reeling,
Ending tranquility, ignoring Nature’s fragility—
All through the day, all through the night—
It just isn’t right.