Stan started sprouting leaves one day,
in shades of green and yellow;
he'd sway and rustle in the wind
whenever he felt mellow.
When Autumn came, his leaves would fall
as hair upon the floor;
his dad would say: "Hey, rake those leaves!"
Stan thought this chore a bore.
So late one night it came to him:
He'd simply have to prune!
And so he chopped his father down,
one sunny afternoon.