Late in November of Seventy-three,
the three of us searched for a Christmas tree.
Down in the woods where the briars were thick,
I said, “Pick me up! These briar bushes stick.”
Daddy said, “How will I cut down a tree,
If you end up sitting on top of me?”
“Let my mama chop that Christmas tree down
I’m little. There’s briars all over the ground.”
So it was Mama who chopped down the tree
and took a picture of daddy and me.
Our next tree came from a different spot.
I could walk fine in the Christmas tree lot.
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