The tulip’s warm flirtatious blaze
Is fashioned to attract my praise;
The pansy begs, behind her hand,
“I’m for you, you understand.”
The iris, in her velvet gown
Lives, sure I’ll never turn her down.
The peony, for all she’s worth,
Is striving to improve her girth.
The annuals are at sharp dissension,
Competing hard for my attention.
Then, last, as sure as autumn comes,
Appear my over-coated ‘mums.
They’re true to me from spring to fall;
But–fickle me–I love them all!
by Ray Romine Monday, January 15, 1945
