Rot To Fill
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I was in the car.
Reading a book.

A book on some myths.
There was one about trees.

Or rather the lack of them.
No evergreen or deciduous.

How could this be?
Where are the trees?

Imagine what its like.
With out conifer on the branch.

[Chorus]

Billy scratched.
Connor made thatch.

Who slept better.
Cotton or swill.

Dreams are to be had.
Not written on a sketch pad.

Pillows to be made.
With rot to fill.

[End Chorus]

Billy McSwill ate some grass.
Connor O'Cotton sat on his chair.

They looked out at the landscape.
Its treeless mass was a mistake.

The clouds seemed to move acronychaly.
With the sun virutal syncronisity.

There weren't even birds in the sky.
For the lack of trees forbid thier kind.

Thier job delt with fluff.
To fill pillows with other stuff.

[Chorus]

The haptic response was the same.
But side effects quite different.

Billy had an extra ear.
For rot made it hard to hear.

Connor couldn't spell his name.
His neck was crooked hanging in shame.

I think to myself, what would we do?
Comprehensively glad this isn't true.

So I say, we're lucky to have trees.
And fill our pillows with angry bees.