I made a little poem once, about the maple tree,
The vine maple, we call her; she's very good to see,
Because she flaunts her colors early, and her clothing is so gay;
She "coquettes" through all the woodland, in a fascinating way.
She wears a dress of brightest green, when other trees are dark,
She puts on spring leaves early, and she draws the singing lark;
She's lightly clad in summer, but with first hint of fall
She dons her yellows and her reds; she sets the styles for all.
A printer took my poem, and at first I read with pain,
That he had made a slight mistake and printed my vine vain;
But as I read it over, my wrath was quickly spent,
For a coquette she really is, and "vain" was what I meant.
When you see her in the forest, you'll agree with me;
She's the flirt of all the woodland, the vain vine maple tree!
