I met a man in Loggerville.
A place which,
as you can imagine,
has many logs.
Now being no
permanent resident
of Loggerville,
I thought I might
take a trip.
To Loggerville.
This man of Loggerville,
seeing as how
he chose to reside
in Loggerville,
was, of course,
a logger.
Short and stout.
Heavy in hand.
On his shoulder
he carried his axe.
With one chop,
the tree came down.
And with it,
came a mighty roar.
“MY FRUIT!!!”
Is what it said.
Now I must admit,
hearing a tree talk
was quite an ordeal.
And I turned to this man
and asked him,
“Has this ever happened,
before?”
A quick shrug I received,
no more no less,
and that troubled me
ever so much.
And he reached down
and plucked
from the ground,
an apple,
as golden as Eve.
‘Let’s get going kid.’
He said to me.
‘There’s plenty more to collect.’
And with that,
he turned
and trudged up the path.
Hearing trees speak.
An old logger
who thinks
it’s normal to find
large, golden fruit.
It’s all quite a sight
I must admit.
But of course,
I forgot,
I’m in Loggerville.
