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Big Old Tree

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Oh no! the leaves are falling the winter months begin

And I am contemplating whether to go outdoors or in

The plain old truth of the matter is, I hate the winter chill

It sort of makes me grumpy and also makes me ill


I'm like a little eskimo with my clothes of heavy attire

I'd sooner be in Australia, even then in front of a fire

I was shivering so much in Egypt that they had to warm the room

I'm sure that I was more stiff and cold than good old Tutenkhamun


I wrap up warm in summer even Greece I take a wooly

I never get in bed naked, well actually not fully

I never seem to break a sweat or admit to being hot

I think my little body has simply just forgot

Scleroderma wotsit? And Raynauds I have too

My body feels like plastic and my digits all turn blue


I'm such a weird person, can't function during attack

I'm sure my brain's connected to my fingers at the back

It seems like my head freezes the moment my fingers go

I'm in my own special world where no one wants to know

I'm like a little robot who's batteries are running low

messing with my reactions, winding down to slow


Soon all the trees will be standing bare, poor trees do they feel the cold too?

Shedding all their springtime green, turning colour perhaps they do?

Then I will give my sympathy as I watch the winter frost

Covering all the branches when all the leaves are lost

Poor old English oak out there on it's own

Hundred years of winter is how long it has grown

And I'm sat here moaning, how selfish could I be

For those of us less fortunate, even the big old tree.

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