I’m pretending I’m a tree;
I’d rather be a tree than me.
It doesn’t have to bathe each day
Or have his Mama throw away
The sand crabs that he caught and put
Safe in a place she’d never look—
At least, he didn’t think she would—
He hid them really, really good
Behind the sofa cushions where
She’d never find them, down in there.
But Mom began to sniff and sniff—
And soon her lip began to lift,
And when she found them, holy cow,
She hit the ceiling, and somehow
That bunch of crabs—they hadn’t died
And they took off, and Mama tried
To sweep the crabs up with a broom
And I was sent straight to my room
Where I could look outside and see
The tree that I would rather be.
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