They called him the Spirit of Woodstock,
because of his ginourmous beard.
A beard that he used to keep pens in,
his glasses, and other things weird.
With a brain the size of a planet
he always considered things well.
Before writing a well thought conclusion,
his thinking as clear as a bell
But his downfall was his own distraction;
a penchant for a rambling stroll,
short sight and a lost pair of glasses,
the existence of a very large hole
And so passed the Spirit of Woodstock
Now truly a spirit indeed.
Self planted in a lovely fresh grave hole
a very intelligent seed
YOU ARE READING
The Tree of Dreams
PoetryRandom poetry and the occasional drabble or dribble of other short random thought from the depths my somewhat bemused brain, or possibly Brian if the schizophrenic misspelt pseudo entity that lives up there is up to his old tricks... poems from the...
