A crowd is gathering, my oh me
To hang me from the poet-tree!
Oh what a ghastly sight to see,
Me dangling from the poet-tree!

Poet-tree, my poet-tree,
Shall I live and die for thee?

Once in my back yard, as you see,
I grew my own sweet poet-tree.
And men would journey 'cross the sea,
To marvel at my poet-tree.

It grew as tall as it could be,
My wondrous little poet-tree.
Such lofty branches sheltered me
Beneath that lovely poet-tree.

But there were men who came to me
To scorn my sacred poet-tree.
"Away! Away!" I voiced my plea.
"Please don't cut down my poet-tree."

Poet-tree, my poet-tree,
Why ever did they laugh at thee?

And now the mob encircles me,
Offended by my poet-tree.
With blazing brands they come at me
To lynch me on my poet-tree.

Poet-tree, my poet-tree,
Oh drive this feverish mob from me!

But as the crowd rushed in at me,
I climbed my towering poet-tree,
And there henceforth, I'll surely be,
For there I know I can be free,
Perched atop my poet-tree.

George Chadderdon © 1993