Such Flora Balms Our Male Wits Poem by Mark Heathcote

There are perfumes unmixed, so rare and pure
That without loitering, heavenly spore
They fill our five senses-forevermore.

All we'll do is pray, worship and deplore.
Or say she's sold her soul, that she's a whore;
Such flora balms our male wits pre-war.

Yet, its love that tempers men immature,
It's that fresh affection we-find-amour
When we find her clothes on the kitchen floor;

Petals-abandoned, it's when we mature.
And find a blossom with a sweet allure
One we would keep all others is manure.

Such eternal fragrances are not impure.
Earthly, they're just out of place for sure.