Apples

The old apple-tree at the top of the orchard Lies flat On its back . . . It's been like that Since it came down smack In a big blow Four or five years ago. It lies there With half its roots in the air; It's full of American blight, and canker, and weevils, And all the rest of evils That afflict apple-trees . . . It's all elbows and knees, Like an old man with the screws . . . And yet, to be perfectly fair To the old apple-tree that lies flat At the top of the orchard with its roots in the air, It does produce Apples . . . Nothing at all out of the way, Just apples . . . Nobody's ever bothered to prune it, or lime it, or spray It with DDT or XYZ or ABC . . . In short, it's just an old apple-tree Somebody's great-grandfather planted Lord knows when - Might be fourscore and ten, Might be more years ago . . . And wiseacres look at it and say 'You should do away With that old thing, It's no good For anything but firewood . . .' And you say 'Yes, I suppose I should - Perhaps next year' . . . And then The spring comes again, And it's still there With its roots in the air, And there's a blossom on the old thing, And the birds come and sing And build nests in it just where they built them before, And you say 'May as well let it go a year or more' . . . So the old apple-tree at the top of the orchard Goes on lying on its back doing just what it chooses And produces Apples . . .