Timberrr
Under a spreading Eucalyptus tree
The village wordsmith stands;
The smith, a wimpy man is he,
With small and delicate hands;
And the muscle of his unused arms
Are limp as noodle bands.
His hair is sparse, white, and long
His face shows many cheers;
His brow is wet with boozy sweat,
He cries when in his beers.
He has the world on a string,
Kept taught by kind next rounds.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear this fellow blow;
You can hear him swing his silly sludge
Without measure beat or know,
Like an idiot ringing the village bell,
He tells happy hour is here and now.
Drinking, napping, and s’ more,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task to do,
Each evening sees same task undone;
Something ignored and freed from stress,
Has earned a night to sleep the dead.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my unworthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our misfortunes are often wrought;
Thus on its unsounding choices shaped
Morning conviction to have another sought.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote “The Village Blacksmith” poem, circa 1840. Crantz chopped the poem to pieces circa 2016. Longfellow received a commemorative chair made from the tree of his poem. Crantz anticipates a commemorative gift, as well, from the fallen eucalyptus tree. He prefers a barstool instead of a chair and agrees to supply his own whoopee cushion.
