why do they compare the beautiful, like flowers in world full of weeds
flowers aren't endless
they grow and they die

mother used to call me a flower
her slurred mumbles
with her quivering hands and all
she didn't really see
the beautiful exists beneath
and never would she understand the soul will always seek the ends of the earth

so why call the beautiful, flowers
call them four leaf clovers
helping those in need of luck
a gentle hand they are
they will always be remembered
for their beautiful souls
were always a helping hand

it wasn't there beauty
or there extraordinaire
it was there four sides
quick to guide

that's the beauty, the underneath