people are peppered at peaks of the hill station. what of the towns at the foot of it all? there is a chance of snowing, and chinese candles are holding your borrowed sky— what about the burning towns at the cost of your coal? you have gathered all our oak, pine, and kail, made boats you will dine in, made shops you will take one souvenir from. what about the land, barren at the foot of it all? our nuts are drying, our apples are stuck, but you come relentless for my smoking mountains. must you come to my roofs, buy my timber cheap? look at the silt at the foot of it all that you will drive, that i will pry when you pass us for pennies.