In A Field Of Daisys

Such a pretty blossom, bending in the sun,

Blushing like a sunrise, for anyone,

 

Graceful in her sway, on the breeze,

Tender, fresh growth on her leaves,

 

Glistening with dew in the morning hours,

Standing out in a meadow of well behaved flowers,

 

But this bloom has a secret that no daisy knows,

For this lovely lass is an Irish rose,

 

A thorn awaits the hand that seeks to claim,

A rose that chooses to remain,

 

As the only flora packing weaponry,

Being courted only by the bees.

 

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