It’s not the Tree of Liberty; frankly, I’m not certain that species even exists any longer. And while it’s a cherry tree, little Georgie Washington probably never took a whack at one of its ancestors, because it’s a Canadian red cherry.

And it’s in our backyard as of this morning. I’d be happy to water it with the blood of a tyrant if one happens by, but we’re not rich enough to merit the gummint’s personal attention. For plebes like us, the dung is flung wholesale, from a safe distance.

It’s fertilizer, to be sure — you can tell by the smell — but the compost being spread by the plutocracy’s lawn boys in DeeCee is not the kind that encourages green, vigorous growth in anything other than their masters’ portfolios.

So, lacking tyrants’ blood, we’ll just water the little dickens and keep our fingers crossed. This yard has not been kind to trees. You’d think this place had been built on a Republican graveyard or something.

Anything of value that lot takes with them when they go.