When I found a rose that knew her thorns,
I grew a garden rounder;
Thank her weedy floor.
No one liked to touch any part of her
Force she shimmered to shy,
Redness she murked and cried.
I hated her at first, and that was for certain
For roses were thorny and therefore broken.
Pieces rule the world, and she is its model
But then again, my theater’s in pieces yet made a prophet.
I became her guard because we are alike
And so I fink;
I still go to tinker.
“Empress” and “Praetor,” our “And dear” in titles–
I’ll root for this garden,
God, if good, please guard, then.