Ode To The Aroma of The Fresh Bloomed Rose On a Warm Summer’s Night

Now just so someone don’t try to start some trouble, claim I am talking trash about my wife, I am not.

Been engaged four times, married three, divorced twice, plain shacked up once.
(Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone!).
So I have plenty of experience and memories, to call on when writing such a rearview mirror ode!

Ode to the aroma of the fresh bloomed rose on a warm summer’s night-
A memory of the spring of life, like a princess you I did see in my worshiping sight-

The blossom of youth, the fragrance of sweetness left on the hand-
Has turned into a porkey dragon beast harsh in it’s never ceasing demand-

Of this and that, of that and this-
Oh why did fate take on me such a forceful, hateful piss-

What happened to my alluring innocent flowering angel girl-
Who’s nagging voice now makes me want to hurl-

The soft, warm lingering touch late in the dark hours through-
Has become a poor-poor me fest, with a cold hard shoulder the best you will do-

I now understand what my father meant when to me he knowingly said-
Problem is son, you take the thorns along with the bloom to bed-

The Ole Dog!

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