Peter:

It's not quite a tree house song, but there is a tree in it. Does that count?

I've been dying to taunt you fellas. I'm not a brat, really. You might have the tree house, but we've got a feast for kings, and Shula's set out the most comfy chairs that we've nestled into, sipping on the blueberry teas... Na-na.

All together, fellas:

I Don't Want to Play in Your Yard

Once there lived side by side two little maids// Used to dress just alike, hair down in braids// Blue jeans and tee-shirts, stockings of red// Little cowboy hats on each pretty head// One day a quarrel came, hot tears were shed// "You can't play in our yard", and the other said:

I don't want to play in your yard, I don't like you anymore// You'll be sorry when you see me sliding down our cellar door// You can't holler down our rainbarrel, you can't climb our apple tree// I don't want to play in your yard, If you won't be good to me.

Soon school days pass away sorrows and bliss// But love remembers yet, sealed with a kiss. (can't remember the rest of the words; something about the now adult overhearing the same squabble from the next generation.