You drive from the Valley with all its concrete and glitter.
You drive 200 miles to deposit your litter.
Stirring up dust on your quads you do race.
And of our forest you leave not a trace.
Through the woods you will go stomping and stamping.
In a 200-foot trailer and you call it camping.
Of Jeremiah Johnson your dreams they inspire.
But when you get lost, you light a signal fire.
If just once I could see a little gratitude.
Why must you bring your bad attitude?
Like the gates at a derby, they will all start.
In a mindless mayhem to shop at Wal-Mart.