The Sick Rose

A rose is sick,

Blame the greedy worm

That has made its pick

During a spring storm.

That tricky worm

has done a brainstorm,

Oh, boy,

It determines to destroy.

Summing up her courage

To prevent further damage,

The sick rose stretches her toes

And kicked, there it goes.

The sickness is gone,

The worm harms no more.

The rose enjoys her time alone,

She plays with the breeze she would adore.


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