The Garden Party
Seven English roses in a garden set for tea,
With watercress sandwiches and potpourri.
Dressed in their Sunday finest and fresh
Dew drops settling on their velvety flesh.
They gossip with the butterflies,
And sing softly to the cerulean skies.
Daintily downing their herbal drink
They’re much too happy to even think.
But soon the garden party must be done,
The roses are left to soak up the sun.
Out of their Sunday finest they go,
Back to donning holly and mistletoe.
But never is a rose’s gossiping done,
And they chitter and chatter until night has come.
And in each other’s company they stay
For the garden party the very next day.
