A rose withered and worn,
Concealed, drenched by the storm.
Nobody regards it at all.
Wordsworth's daffodils grow,
But despite their yellow glow,
Hang their heads in deepest woe.
Grass growing fresh and green,
In a city, far from clean,
Misplaced within this scene.
Trees, blossoming full,
Inexplicit, vague and null,
In a place so dismal and dull.
The silence of midnight surrounds,
Houses and buildings of towns,
Preternatural in their grounds.
There was once a time before,
When the world was fresh and pure,
Spare a thought forevermore.
