I met you a few times
And petunia too.
You had a corn farm
And really like corn juice.

I didn't know you well,
But you pop up in my mind
From time to time.
It's always the same thing.
Death by driftwood chair.

But you're a tulip pot now.
Mind you, I'm not sure
where they've moved you.
But if I ever find out,
I'll pour some corn juice
In your pot of roots.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Mayan, in the year 1001 AF.