by Bill Condon
The mother was a ghost gum,
a really terrific tree-mum.
The father was a noble oak,
a shining prince of tree-dom.
You’d think with a family tree like that,
the offshoot would have to be a winner.
Instead he was a toothpick,
who lived in fear of dinner.
- Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #2
Bill says: I wrote this years ago when I was very silly. Nothing’s changed.