I call you my wooden rose
You’re just a chunk ‘a wood
Still, I’ll tell yur story
Cuz I know I should!

The old man sat there a’whittlin’ you
I dint know whut you was
You looked jes like a old dry stick
Covered with a bunch a fuzz

Then I seen that “fuzz” was hay
An you was not yet made
So there I stood, a’lookin’ real good…
And sippin’ my lemonade.

He tuk out the knife and
Clicked up the blade
He went on to shavin’
Rat there in the shade

I’m all eyes, I am
A’takin’ it in
How he’s a’whittlin’
With nary a grin!

That little wood stick
Come under his power!
He whittled and shuk you
Till you was a flower!

He handed ya to me
All smilin’ and sech
A’wavin’ and sayin’
“You kids! Don’t you tech!”

Now I tuk ye home
On my bed thar ye lay
Rat next ta my pilla
Rat there ye’ll stay!

Ain’t never seed nuthin’
Like that whittlin’ man
Done you, wooden rose
I knowed God give a hand!

© Poem copyrighted by Sondra Stallman.
Poems may not be used without written permission from the author.