The poem "Trees" is dearly beloved by many people who are clueless about what constitutes good poetry and is the subject of well-deserved scorn from those who do.  With its mangled metaphors (first comparing a tree to a poem and then to some horribly deformed woman with her arms reaching up and her mouth kissing the earth), the poem is a fitting target for satire.  Below is the original poem, followed by one of my many attempts at a spoof.

      TREES by (Mr.) Joyce Kilmer

      I think that I shall never see

      A poem lovely as a tree.

      A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

      Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

      A tree that looks at God all day,

      And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

      A tree that may in Summer wear

      A nest of robins in her hair;

      Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

      Who intimately lives with rain.

      Poems are made by fools like me,

      But only God can make a tree.

      TREES REVISITED (by Richard E. Turner)

      I think one must have some disease

      To write a poem as bad as "Trees,"

      Wherein the tree has its mouth pressed

      Against the earth's "sweet flowing breast,"

      With arms uplifted to the sky –

      "Such posture is absurd!" I cry.

      A tree that has not leaves but hair

      Would give the wicked witch a scare.

      Tree's got a bosom, earth a breast?

      What's this fixation on the chest?

      I know my verse is really awful,

      But Kilmer's poem should be unlawful.

Stay tuned.  I'm working on another called "Treeses," which conveniently rhymes with wheezes, cheeses, and sneezes.