Perhaps I should apologise
For handing you a bouquet of lies
At first they blustered with loud colours
But time is the enemy and faded them into dour
And now the sharp thorns rage unstoppably
Intertwined around your arms and legs very painfully
And now you scream and call me a liar
And yet you hold the trowel and the fertiliser
Honestly, it was your fault for watering and tending them
Hoping that a flower blooming from the weeds would soon happen
So should I say sorry to you and quit my business?
But then again, I’m a pretty damn good florist.