Rose has a nose that never endeavors to echo art deco; Lego-dreary, it leaves her leary.
For her a smile stretches more than a mile without turning mad or sad.
Being is seeing, and she's never sorry being; it's see me, see me, tee-hee, tee-hee.
Rose goes and gets her pens—there are no fits about "it's"—but clearly she'd rather have mine.
She draws a tree, but being bored, reaches toward my pocket; she's spotted my other stylo.
She's poli, polite; she does not pout. The little arm simply reaches out, the hand, open, clamps down. There's a smile on the little clown's face as she pulls the pen from my pocket.
Now ink on paper flows, goes running down a mountain, tumbling through a meadow, stumbling to the Great Lakes, le lac grand, that Rose, ma fleur préférée, makes.
I could go on and on but I'm not the swan, the snake in the rake, or the break of dawn;
I would bore you and ignore you, ignorant old tyrant of self love, lust, and the heretic's dust. And these lines are not getting better.
So let us stop right here, my dear; danger lies on the other side with the stranger.
She's ma fleur préférée, she's mon idée pure; idée pure, fleur préférée.
See also Rose Petals: Petal One and Rose Petals: Petal Three
By Louis Martin