The Flower Tots
There's a mill under the leaves, beside that dew,
Where the flower tots, labour in mirth,
And their unknown carriers, stand in the queue,
Waiting for the buds to take birth.
And give the tots a pound or two in place,
Then carry the juvenile where they belong,
And the mill manufactures more, in pace,
Or else the clock would have to wait too long.
The angels are too busy to make the petals,
So it's the flower tots who had to do it all,
But the angels' nous are made of metal,
It takes longer to construct the tots, all well and tall.
Behold! The tots working with their rooster-heads,
Each tying a stocking, with leaf-like folded paper,
A gibberish chant, their mouth sheds,
The wheel turns, and the actions performed by folk aper.
Lo! The dead seems to become alive,
And the buds a cynosure, all present!
How pleasant it is, to see the flowers dancing on the jive,
And the flowers tots labour till crescent.
Dear me! They almost caught a sight,
For it is a well kept ineffable matter,
It gave me the biggest of fright,
Seeing the complications backstage, all stirred in a batter.
You mustn't move your tongue to a soul,
About the secret I recently told you,
The flower tots will get wind of your words, through their porthole,
And you'll be in a lamentable condition, which could be went through by a few.
Devanshi Khetarpal's Other Poems
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