Limbs sway suggestively in the wind

just like shapely human hips.

How your leaves scatter here & there

as humanoids fling their loose hair.

If roughness were treasure, I’d invest

in your trunk o’er the hairiest chest;

for I know your bronze wood’s renowned

& e’en supplements my own.

I know your wide black hole holds mo’

nuts that any human’s could hope;

& Sweeter the sap sucked from your branches

than butter splattered from the beefiest phallus.

So, oak, I dedicate this song to you;

for I know when the years suck all o’ my skin’s juice,

you’ll still look no older than 22.

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