Maple trees: what I tap into.
Those maple trees: what I tap into.
They then start sap-oozing and syrup will ensue.

I start by motivatin’ up a small hill,
I tap maple trees with my groovin’ drill.
I pound in the spike, which is gonna load
the pail I attach for a sap-disgorge.
It’s starting to flow down the pail’s sleek side:
begins kinda slow, then it’s an unleashed tide.

Maple trees: what I tap into.
Those maple trees: what I tap into.
They then start sap-oozing, but will syrup ensue?

I am so happy as I watch the liquid pour;
pails all around—I have attached a score.
Into them all the precious liquid rains.
Results will be worth all my pains.

Maple trees: what I tap into.
Those maple trees: what I tap into.
They then start sap-oozing, but what next will I do?

The “water” flows down; in it I drown;
soon will be a viscous liquid brown.
I ferry all the liquid to my cooking shed.
It’s all ruse by which I have misled.
I ain’t boilin’ sap; in there sits a still.
Screw all the maple trees; it’s moonshine I distill.

Maple trees are mostly a ruse,
but maple trees’ sap I’m gonna use.
I’ll be trendy and make a maple-infused booze.