Canto CLXXIV

That nutcase lily at my window sill
has pushed up two new flowers, silly cow,
as if we’ve seen the final winter chill,

but that’s plants for ya, got no brains to know
their taproots from their swelling, topmost buds,
hell, that’s how nature works, all go, go, go,

even that pessimist’s constituent parts
are heaving hives of microscopic graft,
the white cells that stampede within his blood

have no idea about the toxic draft
that brews within his tortured, lonesome thoughts,
they buzz on, optimistic, unabashed

on errands that the wiser would abort.

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