When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown,
Though autumn chilled my reddened cheek
And cold my fingers numbed,
I took my Granddads homemade rake
And set about the chore.
Granddad watched from a rocking chair
And when the job was done,
He said, “Let’s not burn them yet a while,
For the critters will make a home.”
When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown
With tears of mourning on his cheek
To his grief succumbed.
My father bought a stiff wire rake.
And set about the chore.
No one watched from the rocking chair
But when the job was done
I said, “Don’t bag them up yet a while,
For the critters will need a home.”
When that old chestnut shed russet leaves
And the sycamore golden brown
From the havoc beetles reek
They to death succumbed.
The bark began to peel and flake
Tree fellers had the chore.
Alone I watched from rocking chair
And when the trees were gone
I left the leaves to lie a while
For the critters to use as home.