BAD POETRY, Pt. 5


The Pansy

I gave a girl a pansy,
I told the flowers about her.
All around her, roses grow wild,
fragrant petals at her feet.
Standing in her oyster shell,
she yawns and stretches
with the passing sun.
And yet still,
with the thought of pansies,
she’ll smile and think of me.


If a person wanted to test bicycles, would that make them a Pedallurgist, a Cycle-analyst, or merely a Spokesman?

Next week: You say you want a resolution? We all want to change the world.