Rotten

“That damn branch is quite a horrid eye soar,
Pray go break and burn it and make it no more.”

“I would do it of course, for it sounds like quite fun,
But why not make it a job for our lazy son?”

“Boy come here right now! See that tree over yonder?
Remove the rotten branch, and please don’t be a bother.”

“But Mother, that branch is the oldest of them all!
Rotten it’s true, but it grew the tree tall!”

“Go on Son, get out, just pull at it and twist,
It must be done now, quit throwing a fit.”

So he pulled at the branch with all of his strength,
But for something so rotten, it sure meant to stay.
It was dead! It was dead! But still the stick clung
With unbelievable vigor against coming undone.
The boy cried and he yanked and he snarled and he twisted,
Until every feature upon his face was lightly sweat misted.

“Damn you old branch, Father says I must get you yet!
You will yield to me, no matter how much I sweat!”

“Son, oh Son! How are you still not done?
Look at the sun; you’ve been working since one!”

“Mother, this dead thing is nearly stubborn as me,
No matter how much I pull, it just will not come free!”

“Son, dumb Son! Just pull with your back,
You’ve done almost nothing, and still you slack!”

“Father, I’m trying the best that I can!
This branch is too much for any strong man!”

He took a deep breath and an incredible heave,
The branch finally came down! Along with the tree!
And the sharp, rotten wood split right through his head,
And could you believe? It was dead! It was dead!
Father cried and he yanked and he snarled and he twisted,
Until every plaid checker was lightly red misted.

“Damn it, let go! Oh look what I’ve done!
I’ve killed both myself, and the Farmer’s good Son!”