Darling Child of Mine I wish Ye be real, not fake, nor sur... man what is the deal
With all these silly people storming up and down my grove...
Trampling My weeds, leaves and Daisies...
Ahhh what I wouldn't give to have silver tipped,
sharpened dasies that look like they're not there...
So all those heartless fools walking through My Grove,
Would know it's not THEIR place to call home...

mayhap perhaps nature should find more ways to fight back,
though at that in a glance sounds silly,
@@snore@@


THE REST OF THE POEM WAS LOST IN THE DREAM OF WHITMAN, WHO PASSED OUT IN A RAGE
BECAUSE ALL HIS FLOWERS WERE TRAMPLED AND NOTHING COULD SAVE
THEM
HIM
(unless you can plant daisies...)

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Daedalan, in the year 244 AF.