Bruce the Spruce was a Christmas tree
He lived on Christmas Farm.
Each night he dreamed that he could bring
Cheer into someone's home.

When I was a child I would watch the sky
And see the clouds go rolling by.
And as I looked I would try to find
Faces to match with a nursery rhyme.

Of those among mankind I most admire
Are such who've overcome the saddest grief,
And men who've pulled themselves out of the mire
After their lives had crashed upon the reef.

Within your eyes I've glimpsed the jasper sea.
And braved to search out secrets hidden there,
Mysteries of you that now belong to me.
I've drawn them from the deep with utmost care.

Rusty the rattlesnake lived in a log
Down by the river, with Gary the frog.
Rusty and Gary both liked to play
In the shade of the reeds and the ooze of the clay.

Do you think a tree has memories? If so, what might they be?
Beneath their spreading limbs do they recall things done by me?
Do they hear conversations, understand the things we say?
Do they remember secrets whispered, Or the games I used to play?

There's a bad stretch of road on Route Sixty-Six,
That I've often heard truck drivers say,
Is silent and bare, with a chill in the air,
Where travelers have oft' lost their way.

Great poetry is like a precious stone,
Found mingled with mere rocks amid the gravel.
Stunning in its own unique expression,
Unmarred by wasted words and senseless babble.

I have secrets to sing to the wealthy
I have riches to share with the poor
But the wealth that I bring and the secrets I sing
Are but moot till you open the door

Flying on silent wings and sightless eyes,
with bat-like stealth exploring evening skies,
hidden high upon a branch of leafy twigs,
she fastens to a tree her silver eggs.

When you fail your finest effort, try again.
When you tumble or you stumble, try again.
When you flunk the final test
After giving it your best,

Saddled up to a bar-room stool, at a place on the East Side of town,
Drinking beer from a can, sit a dangerous man known as One-punch Willy Brown.
The gals all sidled near him; the guys seemed to leave him alone.
We all knew his reputation and that Willy was bad to the bone.

I went to visit Jon today;
I went to see if he could play.
We've been best friends since he was four
And I only a few years more.

Did you ever climb a mountain, or strive to do your best
To raise yourself above the clouds and reach the highest crest;
And when your alpine goal grew near so high your heart could stop,
It seemed the last five hundred yards were further from the top?

I left the home of the meadowlark
For a land found more oft' in my dreams.
A more noble land than my native park,
With its rubble of meaningless schemes.


In a land where the sun's always shining,
On an isle where young hearts should be free,
In a hut made of grass waits a lady,
Who's wet tears make the salt of the sea.

In the bygone time, of an age sublime, in the long of long ago,
by means arcane, which I can't explain, I once lived by knife and bow.
Though I can't forswear in truth my tale; it is woven out of dreams,
(a fabric made of memories that only night-time brings) .

Have you ever sailed across dry land,
With a wooden leg and a hook for a hand?
All dressed in red, with a patch on your eye
And a crew of thugs who could say, "Aye, aye? "

Imagination is the architect of dreams
And when it meets with knowledge, art and truth
It etches on eternity's vast doors
Visions beyond vain logic's need of proof.


The Little Christmas Tree

Bruce the Spruce was a Christmas tree
He lived on Christmas Farm.
Each night he dreamed that he could bring
Cheer into someone's home.
He stretched his branches every day
And squeezed his needles tight,
So he could be a perfect tree
For holding Christmas lights.
Every year at Christmas time
Bruce did as he was taught
He showed all of his Christmas charm
Hoping he would be bought.
The people came from miles around
To buy their Christmas Trees.
They pulled and tugged at branches
And gave the twigs a squeeze.
They looked for trees just the right size,
With needles that would stay,
And trees that gave a Christmas smell
To brighten Christmas day.
Bruce was a perfect Christmas tree;
The children seemed to love him.
But Bruce was small and other trees
Still towered high above him.
The years went by and Bruce the Spruce
Eventually grew tall.
His branches spread and held their form;
They didn't droop at all.
But there were many Christmas Trees
That grew on Christmas Farm
And no one ever seemed to pick out Bruce,
With all his charm.
Bruce grew so sad as years went by;
It seemed he'd grown too tall.
It seemed that he would never be
A Christmas tree at all.
And when the families came each year
To buy trees for their home,
They never looked at Bruce the Spruce;
He stood there all alone.
Bruce never forgot Christmas;
It brightened all his dreams.
But in the light of each new day
He lost his Christmas schemes.
One day a truck came to the farm;
Men came with saws and rope.
They came to cut the tallest tree;
Bruce finally lost all hope.
"My time has come; I've grown too old, "
His arms trembled in fear.
"I'm only good for firewood now;
"I''ve seen my final year."
They cut him down and tied him to
The flatbed truck they brought.
They drove away, while Bruce the Spruce
Lie weeping on the truck.
Bruce closed his eyes and fell asleep;
He dreamed of silent nights,
Of children's smiling faces,
Of gifts and colored lights.
When Bruce awoke He couldn't hold
Back all of his delight.
Bruce couldn't believe what he saw;
His branches all had lights.
His arms were filled with tinsel.
Children were gathered ‘round.
And everyone was cheering
And laughing on the ground.
Bruce looked around in ecstasy;
He couldn't help but stare.
Bruce had become the Christmas tree
That now adorned Times Square.




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