“This Red, Red Rose is Out of place!”
One does not leave a rose mid sandy beach:
Perchance, a seagull dropped it here somehow?
As much as I might like, I cannot stretch
nor will I bend… or to your logic bow.
Oh, No! This dying rose is out-of-place!
It needs some dainty green and shady lawn.
The sun has wrinkled up its little face.
And left it frying here. But still, I yawn.
My modern ways want none of your trite sighs;
You’d best learn words to move my unctious heart.
You’ve better chance to make my sadness fly
than wilted rose of red regret to part.
So, hear me well as I shake off your sand:
best leave dramatic note or better plan.