Classic Poem

The tree at the door of the saloon
Is brazen and sordid.
It lifts to the sun worm-eaten leaves,
Branches whose curves have grown stiff
With evil living.
The hunger of crowds surging past,
Coarse laughter, cries and heavy feet,
The lurchings of drunken men,
Have touched and corrupted this tree,
Withered it like a harlot,
In old age shrill and selfish,
Meager of shade.
The wind in its branches,
Impudent and too free,
Stirs the brown leaves to ribald whisperings.