Every time it rains down in May, the little lilacs weep

More than that I cannot say, I’ve sworn their secrets keep

Misbegotten dandeliions, strew gold the greening lawn

But there is no brighter blazing wrath, than the vestiges of dawn.

Is it no wonder flowers cry, surrendered ‘neath the gray?

When every blooming one of them, seek a sun filled day.

Take me to their gentle buds, to manipulate their trust

Just let me taste their tender tears, to swallow in my lust

I am no saving Capricorn, but a lost rampaging bull

When offered mistletoe at last, I drained the healing full

Then let such bathos have its cry, some trivial stale sorrow,

For the living know that they shall die, the dead, perchance tomorrow.

Superstitious then, to plant the plant, and fertilize youth’s garden,

So when untimely buds enchant, they have to beg their pardon,

Some cannot wait at heaven’s gate, but flirt with fires of hell,

Yet, come some Sunday, they’ll relate, “God doeth all things well.”