Twelve past three I finished my tea
And left for the forest so I could see
A winter’s gift was just waiting for me.
I took my ax as I went to set free
A snowflake covered Christmas fir tree.
And as I swung at this mighty big tree
A vision in black pointed at me,
Saying son — you better go flee.
So I turned around ignoring his plea
Swinging the ax as he counted to three;
It ended, with the removal of my knee!
With one limb gone we both agree
I ignored the sign and refused to leave;
For it stated that nothing is free
Upon these grounds of the Cherokee.