False Fruit

Can the oak tree, my brethren, bear pine cones?

We find in the budding of the shoot
That all this time the soil was bitter
And thus the hidden root
Revealed at last the poison fruit.

You sprouted and raised the limbs
We said my what a hearty tree!
But then came the thorns upon the stems
Pricking all who reached for thee.

Now you grow in groves of gall
You insist the fruit is sweet
But where the poison seeds fall
Are not dead worms at your feet?

Cut the bitter root from the bitter soil
A good fruit will be the reward for your toil.