how the over-head branches exite me.
they are not the trees my mother once called fat
nor do they hiss and climb a higher plain.
they just stand up high and flaunt their energy;
if I were a lonely soldier
I would marry them at gun-point
and tell my dear mama
I will be late home for my tea.
how calm they walk
to earth\'s end and beyond
with legs that grow no bigger
than the measles on my thumb.
but have they hands I wonder?
if I ever dared to touch them
would they die but still remember me?
perhaps they have a mother of their own
or a father lost at sea
all skin and bone!
would they kill me for their supper?
do they hide a million spiders
all looking for a mate to eat alive?
my mother often said sex has it\'s price.
she was very kind my mother.
her apple-pies to die for!
now I am old
I will have to bake my own;
but I will have to ask my mother first
where the greenest apples grow.