Bunch Crunch Poem by Ima Ryma

I'm an owl minding my own biz,
Flying o'er a meadow, and see
This human guy below. He is
A bunch of flowers cutting be,
Muttering that his gal will like
Them fine, and he won't have to pay.
I watch him take off in his hike.
A tree branch smacks the flower spray.
He stuffs the flowers in his sack.
The blooms droop. He says she won't mind.
I can hear the flower stems crack.
From him to her. Will such tie bind?

The guy wows the gal - who can tell?
A bunch of flowers went through hell.