as it blooms with dazzling winter flowers
and I, like all sad Englishmen,
wonder what they're called for hours.
Lush Thingummies boast in the border,
brash shouts of crimson Oojahs flame,
gauche Dooberries break the order
proud Whatchamacallums acclaim.
The Bobodils in mournful hues,
the Wotsits, pale with drooping heads
and Erm...Aaah's all in splendid blues,
tucked up tightly in shared beds.
But giving each a childish name;
isn't this the game a forebear played?
When chancing on a flower, exclaimed:
'I name you -
'Rose!
Put down that spade!'
A Thingummy Smells As Sweet By Any Other Wotsit