I’m pining for you in the forest,
I’m willow-weeping by the river,
I’ve been more sick with the sycamore,
than I’ve felt in elm-most forever.
I quake like an aspen, I lurch like a larch,
my fir is standing on end.
It’s not oak-kay to be feeling this way,
as the withy withers to ash again.
Through all the days by the alder trees,
my laurels rest and moan
like wind in linden boughs to say
the holly hollers to call you home.
I feel as sappy as a sapling,
madrone is going out of tune,
I’m hem-locked up in agony,
a sighing cypress, missing yew.
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