The trees on the far bank,
Are big fans of The Cure.
Whenever Robert Smith sings,
They dance.
In the breezeless night,
They sway and shimmy,
Beneath the lunar disco ball.
But when the stereo,
Random shuffles to “Blister in the Sun,”
They get righteous and rigid,
In protest, declaring,
The Violent Femmes are poseurs.
Who knew trees love classic pop music? They must hate it when the hippies sit around singing “Ripple” til god knows when…
I’m a John Lennon kind of girl, but I will never look at trees the same again! Fun poem.
Great concept, well done!
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