Here we go ’round the mulberry tree, mulberry tree, mulberry tree.
Everyday ’round the mulberry tree the same people go to and fro, to and fro, passing the old man’s lemonade yellow house with the white Virgin Mary fountain that nobody ever questions. It is winter, and the old man wears a gray fedora and gloves. He stacks a beaver-pile of spindly mulberry limbs neatly at his front curb. What’s left of the tree looks like the hand of my uncle bungled up with arthritis at the knuckles. I want to melt it away, so I think of summer when the old man hog ties the mulberry’s leafy branches to an elm branch forming arms over his purple washed car. I must admit the mulberry looks downright saintly and smart when it arches like that. Like bending that way was its entire purpose all along. I heard it was Herb Watanabe, the drugstore guy who died, who brought the mulberry to town. So here it is, and on we go ’round the mulberry tree, the mulberry tree. She goes, he goes, we go. There ain’t no fruit. Nah, there ain’t no fruit in it, but if you’re lucky there might be some shade.