A tree was born a hundred years ago,
It beaten hellish, horrible winters,
And yet it still continuous to grow.
It defeated awful, dry  droughts,
And yet it still continuous to grow,

The tree a proud willow,
Blossoms every fall,
Its always ready for tomorrow,
And stands strong and tall.

Eons later when it can grow no more,
Its heavy trunk aches really sore,
When it can last no more,
It finally closes its door.