Oh, sweet Willow. Why do you weep?
You've no fear of being cut down
No fruit to reap.

You'll stand on the bank, by this old river bed
You'll weap in quiet sorrow
Until you are dead

Don't worry about heartache
Your friends are just trees
Pain they can take
They can't even feel breeze

If you had a voice, what would your words be?
Would it be "Hello, my friend." or "Please...**** me."