I wonder who left the mitten?
Today I saw a branch. That’s pretty normal.
Wearing only a mitten, quite informal.
Had disrobed its leaves weeks ago.
And now it had started to knit or to sew.
Imagine if trees learned how to knit,
Making mittens that heat with good fit.
I would try a sock made by an elm,
Or a woolly, warm birch-made helm.
A forest that wove would be pretty useful
Just wait a night and your wardrobe’s too full.
There’s thousands of trees in one small thicket;
Child sweatshops in Thailand could go and lick it.
I have a spruce that’s faster than your kids,
It doesn’t sleep and nothing forbids,
Me from exploiting my dendro-slaves.
They’re only trees, no one cares or saves.
My only worry is the catty wool thieves
Thieving the mittens from the trees with no leaves.
Those furry felons don’t even need it to wear
Because they have fur, so they’re not bare.
Maybe they sell it to the feared mouse mob,
The one who handles this kind of job.
They, in turn, launder the clothes
And their money, who knows where it goes.
I wish the police would get off their bums,
Do 1+1 and other such sums,
Find all the clues and then get the crooks,
And leave me with my accounting books.
Very fruitful, the tree mitten trade.
I can soon afford a tree maid!
Sillynity 