This Old tree

Holds at the center, a tavern

It’s branches ringed

Like Uranus and Saturn

Bruised and battered

Tattered and old

But boisterous and large

A presence so bold

In the tavern sits

Ravenous beasts

That drink and feast

And care in the least

But every so often

Comes a bard

Who tells promiscuous stories

Of adventures a-far

That he reads from his books

Mysterious texts

The drinkers linger on each page

And beg for what’s next

But they’d never know

That this bard so wise

Sits on the treetops

And writes by the nights

For hours and hours

And he hums a song

And each time he creates

The trees rings grow long

So yes the men below drink

They party and laugh

But the man above them all

He writes the lyrics to the dance

And the tree, well

It relishes

In all the clamor of the world

Because he grew and grew

Became a-new

And has stories evermore