The English Oak

     Fifty gallons a day he needs,

Fifty gallons of life’s richest blessing,

Without it,

     He dies -

Withers and falls,

Alas,

     He no longer grows

Within the sanctuary

Of England’s finest pastures,

For he be a memory

Of countryside and churches,

Villages and steeples,

And it’s peoples

Who claim his plot,

Peoples with axes,

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