Little Apple Tree

There he sits,
In the corner alone.
The fruit he should bare,
Is rotten to the bone.

He sees all the others,
Sparkling with glee.
Why doesn't the sun,
Come and shine on he.

He sees all their offspring,
Shiny and red.
His hanging lifeless,
Cursed by the dead.

Then comes the farmer,
Carrying axe and all.
He shall be cut down,
Slowly he will fall.

Left on the ground,
Left to rot and die,
His lips starts to wobble,
He begins to cry.

Poor little apple tree,
Laid dead on the ground.
Farmer doesn't care,
Doesn't make a sound.

But one of his apples,
Rolls into the sun.
The robin did eat it,
And then it was done.

The robin stopped and emptied his load.
The small little seed,
Begins to grow.

A few years later,
Standing grand and tall.
This little apple tree,
Is the best of all.