At the Curb

Christmas trees, some quite superb, All sit neglected, at the curb. They’d graced somebody’s living room ‘Til needles cried out for a broom. Then they were stripped and dragged out, bare, Just like the owners didn’t care. Their ornaments were boxed away Until another Christmas day. But all their glory came and went; For them, there is no real lament. Alas, they sit and, with no pardon, They’ll be mulched for someone’s garden. How the proud and mighty fall! Whether they were short or tall, Every tree, once so ornate, Will suffer such a lowly fate.