Trees

I reckon I shall never see
A pome as purty as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth finds room
Against old Mother Earth's bazoom,
A tree that looks at God all day,
Because it cannot run away.
A tree that may in summer wear
A mess of buzzards in her hair,
On whose bazoom the snow has lain,
Who now and then shacks up with rain.
Pomes are made by jerks like me,
But only God ---
1 said God ---
1 mean God ---
Can make a tree.