by Sycamore Smith

My dad once bought a Figmoron Tree
He planted it and he grew it
I chopped it down with a cherry-handled axe
And I told my old man I didn't do it

After he died, I planted another
Where the earth and his bones were mingled
I cannot tell you how long I let that one stand
But if you look at the stump then the rings will
Sitting in the sun beneath the Figmoron Tree
Figmoron Trees give no shade
Sitting in the sun beneath the Figmoron Tree
Sipping on a hot lemonade
You better not wait for the wind to knock it down
So you can cut it up and cord it
Whichever way the wind is blowing from
The Figmoron Tree bends toward it

In October its leaves all turn pitch back
And they float away up through the clouds
Where they gather and stick like a thick swarm of bats
Until they fall in a heap to the ground
It was 19 hundred-ought-zero-oh-nine
Flanagan went on his shooting spree
The next day I went out with my pliers and knife
And pulled 91 slugs from the Figmoron Tree

I had just busted out of jail when I heard
The sound brakes make when they screech--
My dear, late wife wrapped my yellow truck
Around the trunk of the old Figmoron Tree