In the field there grow lovely flowers,
Growing beauty, for the world to see.
But a gardener soon comes to cut them;
An arrangement in futility.
For all cut flowers are dead ones;
Killed, dragged out by the roots-
The bounty of earth, given all for free,
We treat as our selfish loot.
So we mark our days with dead flowers,
Chosen special, for the event in mind;
Dead carnations, for the paler dead ones
Who've left their wilting lives behind.
Dead roses for dead children,
For bride's whose old lives won't survive;
Dead boutonnieres, for bachelor's tears,
Who in secret for the old days pine.
Red roses, dead in a few days time,
For the harpy or the shameless flirt-
While everybody seeing them wonders
About the facts; and what's the dirt?
Dead flowers, from lover to beloved,
Dead flowers, in cold glass stand,
Dead flowers are our only answer;
It's always been the way of man.
Please don't give me flowers;
No flowers, now or ever,
No dying flowers, for my wistful grave-
To remind how long, 'forever'
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