A flower will be picked from its roots,
One of these days—
For where there is beauty,
It never stays.
Envy wilts the flower in bloom,
While leaves fall to the ground;
No one can be trusted,
And loyalty is never found.
Flowers are in demand,
To be put in vases;
They’re purposes is their scent,
And the beauty of their faces.
Flowers don’t grown into trees—
They’re cut even before they can grow,
And once they’ve served their purpose,
They are then thrown out the window.