Within the depths of his plastic pot,
Her peaked petunias bleakly rot;
Erection stemmed from bouquets of knot,
Yesterday rooted; today forgot.
Severed roots by pointed pricks,
Lye beneath man’s molten sticks;
Adam’s temple falls ruin to Brick’s,
Morning relics; midnight rustics.
Fear not the thorn of thy breast,
Without which life would cease progress;
For beneath the teat of thy chest,
Eternal treasure you possess.
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