My Friend, the Thistle.
Dear Thistle, that grows with the ivy,
I send sorrow news of your wife,
And of your many dandelion mistresses.
It was an accidental poisoning,
A fatal mix-up between the feeder,
Against the boxed up weeder.
Oh Dear Thistle, you may grow mad,
I hope this news did not shake you.
Or make your strong prickles wilt
That purple colour may turn black,
For your greif may overcome you.
Yet, on the lighter side, there is grass.
Sweet Thistle, don't you die on me,
No weeder was spread on thee!
Your spines are they softer today?
I once came close before and did pay
Now I'd not know if I had touched you,
Your spirit gone and everything else too.
Rest well, dear thistle, friend,
You lost all and so all was gone,
This is such an unfitting end,
Nothing left, not even yourself.
To remind those left of weed.
Yet at least there'll still be grass.