Worthless, crumpled little leaf— Cast off without a care; Set upon the listless wind, Carried here and there. You’re not but nature’s clutter To disgrace a pristine lawn; The only want we give you Is we want you good and gone! And the Lord within the Manor Sees you only as a chore; He’ll have to rake and bag you Which is irksome all the more.
Doing laundry is such a chore. Sort the colors? I ask what for? Then throwing whites with red and green, I toss them all in the wash-machine. But all my smugness turns to dread When all the whites go tie-dye red!
Deep in fairy forest, A cheery fire burns— Around it dance the leprechauns With mesmerizin’ turns. Their ginger hair a swirlin’, They sing of misty dreams, Of brilliant archin’ rainbows, Of gold that ever gleams.
I want to be a rose—all proper, trim, and neat; Raised above the common, in her elevated seat. She is the lover’s flower, evoking ooohs and aaahs, The flower for which the world smiles in admirable applause. And when she goes a walking, she spreads a fragrant scent, That travelers pause in wonder to warmly compliment.