In my town there is a tree that walks,

It stutters as it sheds its leaves,

For if you poke the tree enough it’ll talk.

After all, it is the mocking tree.

 

In my town there is a tree that cries, as

Through its wiry canopy the winds gallop

And are torn into a thousand whinnies 

That strain to deliver yet another wallop.

After all, it is the mocking tree.

 

In my town there is a tree, and

On its trunk is carved many a treatise:

“Anguish and curses upon the vast tortures of words,

Whose imp plagiarists flop; only their ineptitude, worse.”

And:

“Love is everything, o yes, only love is true,

Love is more than just glee, or a heart, or me and you.”

And:

“Live wildly, brazenly, and with the whites of your eyes, and

Ecstasy, desire, torment and bliss will be your prize.”

But on this tree, ‘tis never said

Whether these etchings are valid, or rather if cleverness is

Most dead.

(It’s most dead).

After all, it is the mocking tree.

 

In my town there is a tree and under it, a seer

She gathers her skirts round her knees, titters queer

And timeless kennings and her touch is of ivory

And her drawforce feels all, and her Sight sparks fiery

Worlds within worlds, which exist within worlds, and

Her tongue lashes truth into shape as it bends and curls:

“Young-ish man, do I see you,

You groovy, brooding, callous tool.

Did you give up? Finally.

Most take you for a fool.

The rule is

Simple: Fool is your folly; and your folly is feared,

So you musn’t be confused as to why your tears elicit jeers.

People are freaks, and the rub is, You’ve been had,

Your nose is no more a beacon than the divine triad fad.

Some of us, like you, are born so’s to grow cold, quite early,

Some of us, like you, fall for actors in our heads, quite dearly.

Birthstones are not birthrights, and though it isn’t right,

What’s just often goes unspoken, to avoid the errant fight.

Believe you me, you quarrelsome, tiresome trout:

A knuckle to your head, a backhanded, permanent pout

Are only the beginnings for you–oh, I see it all:

I watched Adam fall, and I cleaned up Humpty’s wall, and

You’re in for it sonny, you can run but you can’t hide,

They’re going to tan your hide, sneer and snide,

And then when things seem all better, you’ll commit suicide.”

 

In my town there is a tree, and under it a weed,

And on that weed a mouth, and in that mouth a tweed:

“Don’t pay no mind to the seer, sir, she’s as loony as a bird,

Her taste in fate and false prophesy is really pretty blurred.”

 

In my town there is a tree, and, yes, that tree is me,

I slither and slide o’er hills o, feathered, by the sun’s gigantic plea:

“Be happy, and be light, be radiant, be bright,

Grow and grow and grow, take inspiration in my might.”

“O, sun,” I say, “My roots have decayed.

My bark is bitter and my branches are frayed.

The seer is right, and I’m not afraid;

I shall die unbloomed by another tree,

And I shall never bear a smaller me,

I have not loved, for another has ne’er loved me,

And for that, I believe, I deserve to be free.

For every tree is given a choice,

And, well, this here tree was given a voice,

And I shall question as I declare,

That on what is fair:

Do I dare disturb this universe?

Yes, to wit, I do,

I dare.

After all, I am that mocking tree,

And unfortunately for me, I care.