Come gather round quick,

Listen closely to me,

Here of the unwilling dryad,

The tale of the man and the tree,

Not too far from here,

Half a day foot fall all told,

Stand study oaks, young coppice,

One unlike others crooked and old,

At the foot of the tree,

Half eaten by his gnarled bark,

A deep scar in the wood,

A barely visible mark,

When I was younger,

Just a score and two years past,

A wrinkled face stood there,

Breathing breathes, it's very last,

He was old man oak,

Fey spirit of the ancient tree,

His body enveloped, a smiling face,

Withered penis and knobbly knee,

Long past memory of our oldest,

Us villagers have always gone,

To feed him food and water, to hear his

Ancient story and long forgotten song,

Some say women of the village,

Sometimes gave a little more,

And sweet little Mary Mathis,

Should call him father by blood and law,

So let me share the tale,

He told me when I asked,

With wild boar and fresh parsnip,

And ale from in a cask.