the man lived all by himself

in a house down by the creek

and he used a whittled stick to walk

because his joints were very weak

he had fought in a war or two

and had many stories to share

and he’d tried before to tell them

but nobody seemed to care

one morning, he was cooking food

and his knees gave out on him

and there he was, just screaming

until the sky grew very dim

you see, trees are old and wise

and share their knowledge of the skies

yet, nobody hears the cries

when the father oak dies