The Dryad's Song

Garroway is a were-dingo. This is to say, he used to be a normal dingo, with a mate, a section of territory, pups, and the job of helping raise them. One night, something attacked and bit him. The next full moon, the poor feral dog found himself a man. He now tends to stay in a hybrid form. But that's just the beginning. A roleplay character of mine, the gallant coward, scholar of poetry and literature, and thorough rogue often takes to spouting bits or whole compositions of poems, songs, or rhymes in response to everyday happenings, or to entertain. Much of his poetry rhymes. Almost all, in fact. And, since it's done within the bounds of real time roleplaying, I come up with it on the spot, and generally very fast. This 'song' was in response to a dryad character asking for a song, Garroway asking her to name a subject, to which she answered - surprise - a tree. I took that and ran, and the result is what you see below.

The Dryad's Song
Down in the woods my friend did walk,
and he did sing and he did talk.
To every leaf and every stone,
every branch and every bone.
He and his flute piping all the day,
whirling up and down in boisterous play.
The wind did back his every song,
as he danced and played all summer long.

His feet took him every day to sit,
and rest beneath the shade of it.
'It' you see was the trailing wings,
willow leaves as feathered things.
Leaves that kept the sun at bay,
to halt the burning in heat of day.
My friend loved to sit and sing,
'neath the shade of willow's wing.

By coolth of pond and in golden time,
my friend spent hours in that gentle clime.
The branches rustled with delight,
when in her shade he'd find respite.
Lad and tree did become so linked,
his music never sounded half so sweet;
as when beneath its leafy sway,
he would sit, and his flute play.

Birds would chorus from the top
of willow branch and cattail crop,
and oh what magic, oh what bliss,
during that time of summer's kiss.
My friend plays on, and still you see,
in his favorite spot, beneath that tree.
Bard and willow, no room to weep.
Music there to joyful keep.

The Singing Willow, she's been named,
and long as she's green, she'll be the same.
The place is fill'd with magic of the heart,
and nothing finer, in any art;
will ever in my life I see,
as the Singing Willow, the Bard's Tree.