Roses seem just so damn cliche,
violets do as well.
Seems like every other poem,
one or two grows from the snows of hell.
But, darling, I can't see past the ivy...
it's creeping and crawling through my veins.
Oh what, oh what, oh what, oh what
e'er can I do to see past this backwards rain?
When did the moon come to fault
for the stars that shimmer out of the sky?
Simply, I cannot understand,
and dew the moon drops cry.
Vacations come in airplanes
and airplanes come in jars.
Wonder if this rocket ship
could take us up to mars?
If in mars would you stop yelling?
I hear the atmosphere is very thin.
Wonder if the roses grow there, too...
where, oh where, oh where, does this story begin?
Gravity and cliche flowers
stemming from these words.
Rocket ships in glass bottles and jars...
we don't get very far.
