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Those piles at the trunk
Those dead piles at the trunk,
Boring baby chunks,
Crackle,
And crunch,
Those dead piles at the trunk,
Whistle,
Like a mistle,
In the hazy fall breeze,
Those dead piles at the trunk,
Remind me of a sullen monk,
Without wisdom to impart,
Yet those dead piles at the trunk…
Astound,
Amaze,
And enchant,
The wee little child,
Who is secretly wild,
For if it is done right,
You just might,
Jump into such a pile,
And scream, “My name is Harry Styles!”

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