Go down to the greenhouse and gather the blooms,
then scatter them all in separate rooms--
the rose on the grate of the fireplace cold
to lie there and die there as we grow old.

The arrangements are odd and enigmatic,
the occupants frail and most asthmatic
afflicted with allergies, fear and despair
made worse by the stale and fetid air.

Though we gasp our devotion like fish in a boat
and confess our passion by rite and rote,
we're as blinkered as babes, as clear as bells
as we rise from the drink on our half-assed shells.