Ode to Box Elder

Box elder, box elder where would I be
If you were not there to occupy me?

I cut you and haul you,
Split you right down the middle
I wish that your wood would
Not smell like stale piddle

Your heartwood is oft' red
Due to bacterial infection
But I am warm in my bed
From your heat (you know, convection)

In the fall your bugs
Try to get in my house

I hate those bugs.