Words to a Beech Tree

How can you not like misty rain?

Walking through Central Park today, it was misting like the lettuce area in the produce department and everything was at its peak of green. It was frigging Ireland out there.

Near the corner of Columbus Circle, that whack shopping mall, in the park, is a huge beech tree, high enough to scratch the moon. I stood there grinning from ear to ear.

Trees are very destructive to my nose when they are fucking. This year, they went on for three weeks. (Please stop the global warming, or climate change, or whatever you want to call it---it is turning the trees into nympho-monsters.)

But when the sex is all over, and it seems to be now, it is the full leafing that follows. (Don’t want those pesky leaves to get in the way of the girly parts. Ah, evolution…brings us tulips and little piggies in April.) Strange, my spell check loathes piggies.

That beech tree. I wish I were as large and in charge. Then again, it’s fine with me that things are the way they are.