Flowers, were picked, by you
And taken into an atmosphere,
Completely new, if you,
Could only knew.....

  That's not the way, to plant a little child!
  That's not the way. to control his mind!

Flowers, were raised, to think like stones
To work like bones in one unit,
So cold and oiled,
Without the warmth of mother soil....

  That's not the way, to treat a little boy!
  That's not a way, to use him as a toy!


Flowers, are now dead...