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.