The boy who grew up
Simply selling flowers
At 16, at 61 is
The man who sells guns.
They laughed at him
When he sold flowers,
So he learned,
Now he tries guns.
Sells them to everyone
All his favourite gangs
Because gangs are better
Than fragile fragrances.
And he gives away his flowers
Darkly in dusty secrets
And back alleyways where
People still love flowers.
Comments
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cheri, this is rather pesemistic...a bleak comentary of the state of things. the simplicity of the verses fit their sorrowfulness full well.
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