Come run along within my woods,
And listen to the stories; my goods.
The voices come to speak to me,
And write the words from the backwoods.

The seeds that live are there and free,
And waiting to grow in to a tree.
They cry out for me to give show,
And so I plan for all to see.

They say that it's their time to grow,
To be something that we will know.
They show no fear of a reject,
But some shall never grow, I know.

The seeds that live are the elect,
The others suffer from neglect.
And though there is a wide select,
My trees that sprout are my collect.