Sycamore Trees

Zacchaues, come down,
for the tree is rotten,
it cannot hold your weight;
It belongs to someone else
and is not yours to climb;
You shall be made sick,
pesticides are still on the leaves;
Those clouds look like lightning,
this is the tallest tree;
You left your door unlocked,
strangers are eating there;
The poor are gathering,
demanding you see to them;
For you should hide in your house today.

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