Sing songs to the leafs,
Lamentation to the trees who drop them.
Handily place them.
To the salvation, of recitation.

So that when they mold
into the ground.
That their primitive essence may be found.

For another tree to grow,
out of the seed that you did sow.
But sing to the seed no more.
They have all they need. A breath to draw.

Compulsion is a sad thing,
making all of emotions deafeningly ring.
So you must understand. There's things I can do, and things I cant...
Though I have to say, that don't excuse why ate your aunt.

You must understand, that when you have these enormous fangs.
Sometime you get these inexplicably ravenous pangs.
All I seem to want to do is eat,
the very first person that I meet.

Believe it or not, but I am sorry for these rather large eye's
Which were used to make mocking disguise.
I know the shock must have been great.
The aftermath I knew you'd hate.

Though the woodsman cut me open with an axe,
I honestly don't find the judgment lax.
He did what he had to do,
so who am I to ever blame you.

But though this tale maybe done,
there are plenty of children left to chase and to run...

I look upon this humble earth,
the place I proudly, call my birth.

For there are many others worlds
with placid rings and gentle swirls.

But I look gently with loving eyes.
To the cold gray cloudy skies.

Of earth.