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The Roses

The gardener sets out to find the finest rose
He grew many, but some he will dispose
Looking in and about, he picks the few
He thinks might surely do
And one by one, he finds a flaw
Here or there, a thorn, and scoffs

I'm the rose whose petals are so pale
The gardener disregards how a flower will feel
When he grows her gently
And waters her plenty
Then one day finds more importance
In another so beautiful as romance

He sets the beauty in a glass
High up near the sun to bask
The pale one cries, so poor
For the gardener waters her no more
And finally one day she withers and falls
while the gardener doesn't bother to watch
And she turns gray with the dust
All because she believed in love




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