He can dam. . .aqua hive, halving a tree—snuffs its life.
He’s that churl chomping leaves; it is the damming beav.

Friday night and he bites an Oak,
Clearing out a once forest choke.
He can lay down a Yew—slick! Falling down, it swings.
Like the Dutch, he’s a diking king—
On that last term I place my eye:
Was it an oxymoron try?

With a bit of rock [Maple] music, she trims the tree line.
She’s in the mood for a dam—
For Spruce. . .don’t give a damn.

She is the damming queen, loves to feast on the bark so green,
Damming queen. . .trees deceased in a timber-ream.
She can dam, that’s no jive; halving of Pine with her’s rife.
She’s that girl chomping leaves; it is the damming queen.

They’re both teethers—Spruce, Fir are gone;
They are vermin to Farmer John.
Looking for a gun; more than a .22.
He’s in the mood to scream, “Damn!”
’cause they’re flooding his land.

His is a damming keen; vows he’ll beat rodents—send ’em clean. . .
Dante scene. Feel the heat in his timbre mean.
There’s a BAM! Not alive, the toothy guy and his wife.
See that swirl: water streams; it is the dam he’s creamed.