The Oak Must Die - 2011/07/03

The spigots are dry as a bone
There is not a drop to be had
All my toilets will not flush
The smell is getting real bad

I sit staring out the windows
My eyes affixed upon the tree
Though it makes no move at all
I can feel its raw hate for me

With roots it has interrupted
The morning routine I employed
Rather than avoiding the pipe
Underground that it destroyed

Oh look at its very many leaves
Each waving at me in light wind
Every leaf like a middle finger
Whose owner I dream of skinned

Should I eviscerate it quickly
Or kill it with a thousand cuts
Before it can get a deadly grip
On my valued and delicate nuts

Whatever the case it is a tree
Nursing some malicious intents
Who so made a formidable enemy
That cannot forget these events

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