He could not see
What was under his nose
So he plated the thorns
On the Phrygian rose
And there she sat
Barbs glittered - not gilded
Impaled on her spit
Of aureate anvils.

And the pissy-beds
In their plain yellow trappings
Fathometer blips
On a bed of green wrapping
Their ******* halos
Trudged underfoot
As he ground them to mince
In the threads of his boots.

He could only love
What he couldn’t have
What lay free at his feet
Was too common a salve.
But it’s hard to love
What is hard to hold
Thorns will draw blood
Even if covered in gold.