It's getting down deep in December.
Time to work the herd for a tree.
So after doing the feeding, the family
Climbs in the pickup with me.

Now I don't know 'bout your household,
But mine's sure ain't easy to please.
I've got this plethora of critics
When it comes to judging them trees.

Jackpine, cedar or plum bush?
It don't really matter to me.
I'd just cut the first one I come to.
Though it weren't no symmetrical tree.

Them critics of mine got to wrangle
And measure, argue and talk
Of breadth, depth and thickness,
So we walk, we walk and we walk.

Of course every dang sylvan candidate
Is clear at the top of the hill.
And though, "Those don't look so good up close,
Those over there prob'ly will."

I straggle along with an axe and a saw
Cussin' Santy Clause with each step.
While the critics' derision and scorn
Is only surpassed by their pep.

See all them tracks a milling around
Where the family skidded and larked?
We finally come back to the pickup
And cut one, right where we was parked.
Poetry by ©   Wallace McRae