Rube

As the raven scoured the ground
his pecking-at, his clicking sound,
scared the groundling bugs away
to trees nearby, as if to say,
“goodbye and farewell to the earth
we’ll burrow here, for what it’s worth.”

There they tunneled, deep and wide
down through the roots and up the side,
-eating up the tree in bits-
Upon this stand, a treehouse sits,
that once come tumbling, crashing down
when its support became unsound.

The sound of this infernal din
startled Cecelia Margie Quinn
who dropped her violin- and squealed
then rushed the window and appealed,
“Someone call the doctor please!
Our tree has fallen in the breeze!”

The doctor came to take a look.
One glance of the felled tree was all it took,
“No wind was cause for this, my dear.
Your tree was termite-ridden, I fear.
I’ll call the tree removers – quick-
before the other trees get sick.”

The tree removers came and cut
it up, the tree – I think chestnut-
was hauled to Fred McClintock’s dump,
where it decomposed and clumped.
The bugs – or termites- as it were-
found other places to inter.

Cecelia Margie Quinn resumed
her violin rehearsal – it’s assumed –
a performance or two will be contrived
of concerto numbers nine and five.
The doctor had to leave straightway.
The raven – it just flew away.

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