An old Owl sat alone,
Complacent on his limb.
Like a king upon his throne,
Waiting for the Grim.
He sighed and gazed below,
There the colors flashed.
Birth by steel and drawn in row,
Upon the road they dashed.
But long before the chrome,
And all the endless iron.
Their baked a gentle home,
That little rodents pry on.
And long before the house,
Their laid a giant log.
Cared for by a mouse,
With a rude and noisy frog.
Though at once the fallen Birch,
Was a strong and mighty tree.
Where playfull little birds would perch,
To sing as one with glee.
Here the Owl spent his youth,
Learning how to fly.
Learning morals and their truth,
Of how his home would die.
For nothing ever last so long,
That with it one escapes.
The spirit of what keeps us strong,
Is what the iron rapes.
