Bruce the Spruce

[Stephen Whiteside]

Bruce the Spruce

She traced it all back to the wedding
When all had been said and been done.
It wasn't the food or the bedding,
Or too many rays from the sun,

But that wretched new-fangled confetti
That came with a deep-bedded seed,
Extolled by her bridesmaid, sweet Betty,
As salve for material greed.

When husband, dear Bruce, started scratching
Just one little patch on his scalp,
She knew not a seedling was hatching,
And hadn't gone south with the pulp.

You'd think when the leaves starting sprouting,
And showing above his combed hair
She'd twig, but that bright little outing
Arrested her fears then and there.

The days, they passed quickly, and Bruce
Seemed ever the less like a bloke;
Seemed ever the more like a spruce.
It clearly was more than a joke.

He no longer drove to the station
Each morning, then one day she found
To her great and infernal frustration,
He seemed rooted fast to the ground.

She called for a doctor in panic,
Who soon palmed her off to a vet.
He felt that the cause was botanic,
And really the strangest thing yet.

It seemed it was too late for treating.
Her husband towered up to the sky.
Their marital bliss had been fleeting.
The decades they slowly passed by.

He was handsome and straight - couldn't doubt it -
And kept many wind gusts at bay,
But here was the problem about it.
She knew, at the end of the day,

She'd really prefer her old Bruce,
The way it was all meant to me.
Though fond of her stately old spruce,
She'd married a man, not a tree.

So, when your great wedding you plan,
Avoid clever tricks, though well meant,
Lest you start married life with a man,
But finish, instead, with an ent!

Stephen Whiteside 18.06.2014

[Neville Briggs]

Poor old Bruce turned out to be a bit of a sap.

[Stephen Whiteside]

Yes. Went to seed.