"I'm gonna get my old saw
from out the family barn,"
is what I told my mother,
in the kitchen, spinning yarn.
"I cannot see the forest
for the trees that block my view,
so I must cut them down," I said,
"to see as good as new."
To get the keys from their hook
I grabbed a ten-foot pole;
I knocked them on a plate of bread,
they landed on a roll.
I left the house but dropped my keys
into a shrub designing.
I beat around that bush
until I saw their silver lining.
I bent over backwards, picked them up,
and walked the whole nine yards
to the barn which I unlocked,
the door slid on it's guards.
My horses sensed me coming,
I walked up to a mare.
On her mane I gave a scratch,
in her mouth I gave a stare.
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I held my horse's reigns,
and looked into her stall.
I saw my old saw hanging
next to a flower on her wall.
"I need a little hay stack
to push up to that wall,
for I'm in a rut down here,
and I must be extra tall."
Instead I found a rock,
solid, yes, perhaps,
rolled it to the wall
and took the saw within my grasp.
I left the barn behind me
and headed for the trees.
I felt my hair begin to rise --
then realized: it's a breeze.
I used my saw, the trees fell down
and out of my clear view.
The work was very tiring,
and dirty, indeed, that's true.
Now I miss those trees,
though that's really hard to say,
but the grass is always greener,
oh, now wait, why, that's cliche!
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