It was a blossoming flower girl sprouting wild as they came;
she whispered tall tales, but never once uttered her name.
Then a man with a loathing for nature no man denies;
caught of glimpse of this flower girl with his breathtaking blue eyes.
It was the flower girl who nervously stammered the first word.
“I suppose you have come to hear a tale,” she sang out hoping he heard.
Upon hearing her voice he buckled his knees.
Hiding his weakness he retorted, “Be warned I'm hard to please.”
With relish she spun her tale well into the night.
She made certain every trifling chapter and verse was right.
When her fable was done, she offered a precarious smile.
Shaking his head he replied, “That did not impress me. Not by a mile.”
The stranger stood as flower girl stared in speechlessness.
Shrugging; he said with a laugh, “I told you, I was hard to impress.”
The flower girl said nothing as he paraded away,
“Don't distress budding flower girl I will come back one day.”
It was a young flower girl who waited with an aching heart.
She poured her soul into her tales; it became her fine art.
In a melancholy voice she spoke of a man with a biting word.
Who had once made her feel completely absurd.
It was the flower girl who had seen every season pass.
She endured the weather changes with an unmeasured class.
Then a man with astounding blue eyes limped towards her;
his eyes growing sluggish showed him only a blur.
“Spin me a tale,” his tone was harsh, but his voice meek.
She started her tale though she had grown weak.
He spoke, choking back tears, “My budding flower girl has stayed the same.”
Jubilantly she smiled and with her last breathe uttered her name.
she whispered tall tales, but never once uttered her name.
Then a man with a loathing for nature no man denies;
caught of glimpse of this flower girl with his breathtaking blue eyes.
It was the flower girl who nervously stammered the first word.
“I suppose you have come to hear a tale,” she sang out hoping he heard.
Upon hearing her voice he buckled his knees.
Hiding his weakness he retorted, “Be warned I'm hard to please.”
With relish she spun her tale well into the night.
She made certain every trifling chapter and verse was right.
When her fable was done, she offered a precarious smile.
Shaking his head he replied, “That did not impress me. Not by a mile.”
The stranger stood as flower girl stared in speechlessness.
Shrugging; he said with a laugh, “I told you, I was hard to impress.”
The flower girl said nothing as he paraded away,
“Don't distress budding flower girl I will come back one day.”
It was a young flower girl who waited with an aching heart.
She poured her soul into her tales; it became her fine art.
In a melancholy voice she spoke of a man with a biting word.
Who had once made her feel completely absurd.
It was the flower girl who had seen every season pass.
She endured the weather changes with an unmeasured class.
Then a man with astounding blue eyes limped towards her;
his eyes growing sluggish showed him only a blur.
“Spin me a tale,” his tone was harsh, but his voice meek.
She started her tale though she had grown weak.
He spoke, choking back tears, “My budding flower girl has stayed the same.”
Jubilantly she smiled and with her last breathe uttered her name.
