Fall, forest, fall!

Fall again. Autumn, too. Here's your poem.

Of Trees In Winter Time
(for all the horses that refused to give up)

I'm done,
Said the grand old fir,
Supreme ruler of the wood.
I'm done.
And it's for good.

Done it does think it is
But hear talk the other trees:
No kiddin', man, this is our scene,
Buzz off, evergreen!

So what?
So I got the needle leaves,
Don't drop nothing down to rot.
So what?
It's me, is it not?

Well, fir, it may as well be,
To you or any other tree.
But to a group of more than two
No such thing is ever true.

You dream to be a brother,
But other trees won't even bother.
Cause when you cross the borders set,
Disrespect is what you get.

Just stick to your own
Lest you get to be a clown
To a group that isn't yours -
Just another Fir The Horse.