Onanist Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The onanist

I know of a man when following a nature trail
saw a sampling of a tree that looked neglected
dropped his semen on the tree in compassion
Years later, he visited, the sampling now a tree
which he sentimentally called my son and built
A fence around it and cut the branches of trees
that touched his son.
It was a lonely tree with an aristocratic look
There it stood posh among the forest's trees
where squirrels had fun, so sad, so gloomy
On a stormy night, his son fell, and no one heard
the sound; the man said, my son, my son, why
didn't I let you grow like a forest tree should?