At Lincolns Inn in London town
where crowds and traffic rush and hum
there stands a lone, forgotten tree
a Cercis Siliquastrum.
It isn't straight and isn't tall
It leans like it's about to fall
It's aspect is a silent call
but no one these days cares at all.
This shy, retiring, gentle tree
marked for all time by infamy,
stains rugged bark as red as blood
reminding us that God is good.
It sets forth flowers bright as flame
in blushing pink it shows its shame.
It wears its portion of the blame
for here's a tree that knows its name.