The Shoe Tree

February 16, 2010

The Shoe tree was located somewhere in Oregon, I think. I’mm not exactly sure where because I’ve only read about it in a newspaper article and at this point I’ve wracked mmy brain with no internet help whatsoever; to know a veil. If you know then pleas write the answer on a postcard, send it in an envelope along with a cashier’s check for $5 and address it to mme. I’ll look it up and tell ya later

At the time I was living about two hours south of Eugene, 100 miles north of Medford, miles west of Kirk and more than an hour east of Bandon, Oregon when a local friend brought the article to mmy immediate attention. The following poem was created due to those and these facts.

It seems a, not that very old tree tried its best to survive with the help of many branch huggers of course. Locals refused to let the town take precedent over its continued existence because no matter how ugly some thought it may be, after all whistled the crime stoppers, it was still a living thing; or so it a peered.

Over time the tree’s branches accumulated an immense amount of humanities shoo’s. The talked out walkers of every gender, type, colour, shape, age end sighs hung when flung with random a banned dumb meant, reign nor Shine.

Because of the too high graze all were rightfully left. Won; two hung when heaved by the sum of inept pitchers who’d never make the professional grade of anything this side of minor league baseball, triple A or little league for that matter.

Pop Warner league was out of the question. The simple fact being that the lowest branch was not low enough for little tikes emulating the Babe, Ty Cobb and the like. A first try for them led to a second and a third if need be four them. Two stayed if they were lucky or taller people were around to assist as throw hards.

Like the con’s of any decent leaguer’s tryouts, without their own referee’s of nothing’s to strike out for, the thrown up’s still counted repetitions in order to stick by untied strings of the chucker’s feat when finally wrapped in the grip of anything that branched out to catch them. One bye one, two, and moor were left.

The shoe tree was added two so many times that it could have passed for a new device to organise Imelda Marco’s well documented and demented patent leather, rub ‘er soul’s, pulled on while the protagonist faced the laced ped’s filed end hoarded to exploseive proportions in her dainty palace closets or boo’d waa.

The tree got to be famous because more than the population of a kindergarten class with the same amount of brain capacity of pee wheeze type individuals I’d imagine, decided it was time to really play havoc on the tall, barely spread out and barking wonder. They tried once; that didn’t work. Then once again and…

In the end, who knows who the final diss guised culprit or culprits were, but because of one too many vandalisation’s, the famous shoe tree ceased to exist in real life terms. Butt width, roots still planted firmly in the ground, it still stood still while its roots firmly planted in the ground helped.

Them, of coarse the wood bee fireperson’s rejects tried again and once again to burn it to death. Once wasn’t quite enough to undo Mother Nature’s resistance to each wring of fire. Like the Joan of Arc scandal, time and again the vandalino’s played the part of match to grill wild the lone standing tree was a stake at heart.

Now of course the town father’s or mother’s I can’t remember which but it was probably a combination of the too, said; something had to be done ‘fore fear of the town’s continuing blight. After all, the thing was beginning to stink to a higher heaven. Anyone who passed it once admired it from a distance after that.

This singular blight, they continued, might set a precedent then weed be fighting any number of blights that may frighten newcomers to alight our little burg even before they land at our welcoming door step. What shall we, doo? Yes, thought the town criers. We should and shall ax those who dare to cut it down ASAP.

The thing is dead, is no good to no one; ‘sides those feat’s need to be left to their right full owners. Whether or not anyone would claim them wasn’t the point. After all, they were shoo’s left to write:

The Shoe Tree

Before cutting threw The Shoe Tree
Well, before vandals did, burned it down
Any won could throw shoo's up their
Weathered knew, worn, tossed, lost or found

As far up as the branch is reached
One could toss dead shoes - threw the top
Who'd figured sooner than later breached,
Dissed play's of shoe less feats woods flop?

'Fore whatever reasons, weave noted
Site's soul of shoes hangin' free's stunk
Views aired, some sore at Shoe Tree's gloated
End one wonders who torched, dissed dat trunk?

Fun of most all was toss, watch ‘em
If shoes were thrown right in there place
If bye chants there pitch was bad, botched won
Twisted landings led to frowned face

Unsightly group leathered 'n unlaced
Some said should come down, too the dirt
Vandals torched loves soar 'd proudly re: placed
Mattered knot tree nor how humans hurt

Sow, morally wronged was barks wonder
Blaming flames engulfed its surround
Shoe’s smolder, lace singed, sinners ponder
The Shoe Tree, its friends lost was downed.