My favourite flowers are roses
and I... wish that they weren't.
Couldn't I just die for a passionate two-lip,
or bliss out on a bohemian sunflower?
No. Like a million before me,
I breathe the scent of contentment
from pedestrian petals of perfection,
rich in colour, complex in shape
and protected by thorns;
the inspiration of a million poets -
what more could *I* have to say about them?
There's nothing to do, but keep on deadheading...
and quietly curse my conservative taste.
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