The Land Where the Trees Don't Grow

There is a place,

A silly old place,

With quaint and homely charm.

It’s a nice place to live,

And if ever you go,

Not a soul would wish you harm.

It’s a land of beauty,

A state of calm,

A country of unique design.

The moon and stars

Alight the day,

And the night the sun will shine.

The land is filled

With sweeping plains

And jagged mountains ‘brupt

There waterfalls

Flow in reverse

And move from bottom up.

But there’s no forrest

Nor orchard there

In the land of which I speak:

No elm nor oak

Can e’er be seen

Though set on mountain peak.

A strange occurrence,

A floral dearth,

No trees will ever grow.

No paper for reading,

No fire for burning

To warm your breath in the snow.

And if you ask

The owl the time

He’ll be sure to get it right.

And if you ask

The hare her trouble

She’ll be sure to tell you her plight.

The wind that blows

Enchants the ears

With peaceful distant sound;

It sounds of music

From long ago

That turns you homeward bound.