The Tree

Another older poem of mine.


Once on a hill, as tall as can be,
There stood a very troubled young tree,
A nice little birch whose name was Lucy.

Lucy, you see, had a lot on her mind,
She twitched, and found it so hard to unwind,
As she thought of the horrors that awaited her kind.

Ever since last week, she couldn’t relax,
After her husband recieved several whacks.
His murderer? The man with the axe.

She had been told it was an honour to die,
When a tree’s cut, she shouldn’t cry;
It’ll go and meet the tree god in the sky.

The humans would be able to use the trees’ wood,
They’ll become helpful things like they should,
So after death, they have a chance to do good.

But, how she loved her husband so!
No tables or chairs she would bestow,
If it meant her love would go.

He was her world, he was such fun,
They’d sleep together and watch the sun,
Their love for each other never came undone.

To take him from her was such a crime,
So Lucy thought now was the time,
To do something about this human grime.

Her body was hers, not for some guy,
To shove his ass in when she should die,
She let out a snort, looking up at the sky.

Just then, a new thought sprung up in her brain,
‘Before another tree gets murdered again,
Why can’t I have something to gain?

‘I have no tables, no cupboards, no bed,
Trees make them for humans, and they end up dead!’
A troubling thought to enter her head.

‘I know what’ll I do,’ Lucy said with a smile,
‘I’ll wait for that moment, and when it comes, I’ll
Perform something that will be really worthwhile.”

She waited, days, weeks, thinking just of the plan,
When one day, she happened to spy a fat man,
With stubble on his chin, and a lack of a tan.

This man hadn’t forgot to equip,
The infamous axe he held in his grip,
He held it so tightly, would not let it slip.

Lucy on the hill was this man’s sure prey,
Surely this was her inevitable day,
A prophecy that she could not betray.

She saw the man, who had no grace,
And the moment she did embrace,
As a cheerful smile spread across her face.

She’d defeat this fate, she wouldn’t be lax,
With her branch arms, she grabbed the axe,
It was she that performed the whacks.

The man was now dead; he had no prayer,
So Lucy grabbed him by the hair,
Oh, he’d make a lovely chair!

The stomach was the cushion, arms were arm-rests,
A ribcage to slouch on when one feels stressed,
Lucy gazed at it with pride, no longer depressed.


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