Green Roots and Crafted Dreams

In the workshop, where the green leaves grow,

Rubbingwood's the name, let the good times flow.

Got my tools and my seeds, planting stories deep,

Crafting dreams in the night while the city sleeps.

From the dawn till the moonlight, I carve my way,

Turning wood to wonder, in my own special way.

With a weed in my pocket and a plan in my mind,

I'm building more than furniture, leaving worries behind.

Every grain, every leaf, tells a story untold,

Nature’s secret keeper, silent and bold.

Hands that craft with care, roots that run deep,

Rubbingwood’s legacy, for my soul to keep.

Rubbingwood, the weed grower, carpenter of dreams,

In the forest of my mind, nothing's as it seems.

Plant the future, harvest hope, with every cut I make,

In the soil of my passion, no mistakes I take.

Whispered secrets in the timber, leaves whisper in the breeze,

Building bridges from the past, with roots that never freeze.

Smell of pine and citrus, rising through the air,

A craftsman's reverie, free and rare.

So here's to the dreamers who grow and build,

With every seed sown, a new world distilled.

Rubbingwood, the name on the breeze,

Carving life’s landscape, with skill and ease.