Elinore

18

"How Horrid Is A Rose"

How horrid is a summer rose,
How hideous the bud!
How wretched is his curvéd pose,
His petals red as blood!

He'll blaze in sun but never burn.
He'll suck the life from soil.
His image makes my stomach churn;
Oh, from him I recoil!

How villainous the flower is,
Each year to be reborn!
Great the audacity of his
To blossom, ripe with scorn!

His petals peel like broken skin.
His odor spoils the air.
Yet haughtily he lifts his chin
And thinks his beauty fair!

Though some admire this confidence
And flock to him in droves,
His loveliness is but pretense.
How horrid is a rose!