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They try to teach you

To climb up their tree

But your fate has forgotten that

You fall to be free

Take up your truncheon

And toss it in a trance

Timid twigs stumble

Threatened by your stance

And you know that you're nesting

In a niche on your knees

You're naked in the autumn

Whilst you nurture the leaves

Your freedom doesn't grow on trees

The dead wood might fall

In the tree house in the suburbs

So stiflingly small

And my twigs, my twigs will fall

And her twigs, her twigs will fall

In the treetops a conductor's

Battens be harvested

A concerto of crashing chords

His chimes encrusted

Truncating the treetrunks

How the sawyer he sings

And his history is hidden in

A hundred hasty rings

Well lean me that ladder with

The rotten rungs wrenched

You crawl to your cravings with

Your careless claws clenched

And how can I clasp your hand

If you keep yours to climb

And how can you clasp my hand

If I keep mine to climb

They try to teach you to

Climb up their tree

But your fate has forgotten that

You fall to be free

© MOTH 1990

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