I’m sitting in the forest,
Bony flesh among the trees,
Trying to consort with both
The flowers and the bees.
As the hours came and went
And nature’s reply did not
I remembered my childhood
And found I had a thought:
The scarecrow of Dorothy’s comp’ny
Lacked a brain, which stopped him from
Doing as I was attempting.
So I questioned: “Am I dumb?”
One of the bees responded:
“Nope. Now go back to the mall.”
I did just that, but pleased
That bees aren’t assholes after all.
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I said my favorites are forget-me-nots
Then I read about botany
And learned about I-shit-you-nots
And now, well, they are notany.
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Roses are reds,
Violets are blue,
These are both valid points, and I’ll address them in a moment, but first…
But does anyone stop to comfort the violets in their sorrow? Even once?
No!
You know, depression is a chemical imbalance and has many dangerous side effects. But when it becomes a part of ones identity, as it has for the violets, it transcends its mortal debilitation and becomes a blight on the very soul.
When I’m elected, I’m going to make violets purple again! And not by adding rose colored glasses, no. Not by that. Who needs all the thorns roses bring anyway? No, I dream of a garden where honest, hardworking violets can grow bigly without the radical redness of roses!
In other words, f*** you roses.
Let’s Get Pruning ™
This poem brought to you by Goldman Sachs.
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A rose by other names
Smells the same.
But poems would be lame
If flowers had a different name.
There would not be “flower power”
But instead “flength strength.”
I might pick a dozen gwazzles
Or a bouquet of mength.
I think you get the point,
And I’m running out of time.
This poem wasn’t flengthy
And very easy to rhyme.
My garden was wilting
Despite all my silting.
I fert’lized my petunias
The best I was able.
But they still needed water
As the weather got hotter,
And I needed the water
For my guests at the table.
I promised my flowers
The sky would bring showers,
But the weather betrayed me,
And rain it did not.
So I knelt o’er my buds
And sobbed, making muds.
I never expected
That on film this was caught.
I next day I found
In HD and with sound
That my gardening venture
Had three million hits.
I became very wealthy
And my flowers got healthy
‘Cause now I bought water
And new fertilizing shits.
And when I am dead
With dirt o’er my head
And people shed tears
On top of my grave,
I hope they play that vid
Of when I was a kid
And could not work a hose.
Then they’d have a rave.
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Red roses for passion.
White roses for peace.
Yellow for friendship
And renewing your lease.
Yet why I am here
Nobody knows,
For what is the meaning
Of a camouflage rose?
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I’m one of those guys who thinks like a man.
I don’t stop to smell flowers or work on my tan.
I have dark green eyes. I eat meat from a can.
I lack superpowers, but I watch Jackie Chan.
So one day a lady
Asked me a question:
“What’s your favorite flower?”
I asked for suggestions.
“Maybe a flower that is Kuwaiti?”
The thought of that flower gives me indigestion.
“A rose is quite classic, surely a wower.”
Sounds easy enough. That ended our session.
A man knows in matter of flowers and shopping
That matters are best settled quickly,
For women are prone to suggesting without stopping
And that makes a man like me sickly.
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The Daily Travesty 