Gene Moutoux's Poetry

The Flower

"What noisome smell preponderates, my dear?

"I know it not, for I’m a stranger here."

Thus spoke a recent visitor of mine.

We strolled my garden’s paths while sipping wine.


"A garden should be redolent of flowers,

A pleasant place to wile away the hours."

"It is a flower you smell, my dear," I said,

"You’ll see, a few more paces, straight ahead."


"Peruse all garden literature; methinks

You’ll find no mention of a flower that stinks."

Ah, that," I said, "you really must recant."

Forthwith my guest began to rave and rant:


"Opprobrious a garden with such junk,

Obtuse the gardener, or maybe drunk.

A parody of gardens it must be.

The owner’s name will live in infamy."


The flower stood before us, three feet wide,

And still my guest its stench could not abide:

"This flower is a skunk, a piece of dung."

"They named it after you, dear: ‘Devil’s Tongue.’"

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