BYC Poetry Club!

Whipping, waving in the gale,
Roots dug deep into the shale.
Branches high up to the sky,
Yet birds wil fly evermore high.
Leaves as green as an Irish spring,
Roots drinking deep of yonder stream.
Boughs will break, then grow anew,
To once again drink up the dew.
Acorns round fall to the ground,
And small creatures hide them all around.
When autumn comes its leaves will fall,
As it endures times passing call.

I present to you "the song of the oak". It's not very eloquent, but its cool to sing.
 

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