when from the nearby sturdy hedge
the echo of dry heaves
was heard by those three passing boars
who’d paused near that small rose.
They’d lifted one of their short fours
and sprayed her on the nose.
It seems that many passers-by
would pick this forest junction
to briefly stop and then let fly,
relieving through this function
internal pressures to the ground.
And humans did the same,
they often brought some city hound,
to them, it seemed a game.
First sniff, then shoot, then sniff again,
the stench proved quite disgusting.
The question posed itself, just when
her petals would be rusting.
Since every rose contains some steel
to stand up to bad weather
all damages can quickly heal,
a rose is like a feather,
but when it comes to being used
by living things that need to pee,
few flowers would be too amused
to live in forests, less than free.
So our rose consulted mother,
who lived behind a pine,
Mum said they do piss on each other,
‘those humans, they are swine,
they do not recognise us beauties
because their eyes have been corrupted,
they go about their greedy duties.
Your cousin, when she was adopted
by people from the river city,
she was well-soaked with liquid pooh!
Poor child just died and what a pity,
I hope it happens not to you.’
They talked some more, as roses will,
about those humans and discussed
the liquids that made roses ill,
and why all native flowers must
have fragrant air come from inside.
‘It’s a defence against those creeps
who stop and leak where we reside.’
A rose thus treated sometimes weeps.