Poetry | Script

Ode to the Oak

By SPENCER JOHNSON, staff reporter

O’ elderly behemoth oaken tree,
Alone in a pile of mulch you sit,
Waiting silently and vigilantly
By the heavenly light your soft leaves are lit.

Its long entwining branches coil out,
Like a pack of snakes ALL driven insane
By Samuel L. Jackson’s loud, piercing shout
On Pacific Air Flight 121.
But O’ years reveal glory faded,
Bitter students who to your trunk deface.
And leave your mighty majesty faded,
With “06” spray-painted on your wide base.

So now you stand in the dreaded courtyard,
Your age shows, your magnificence is marred.