Rusty nails, broken toes
How does your little garden grow?
I planted some thistles, to pierce your feet,
Because when I picked roses, the thorns tore my heart.
And they smelled far too sweet, sickeningly so,
Now my garden has overgrown, it’s a maze.
I hope you get lost, never find your way home.
In time, a permanent fog will prevail,
And I will laugh, bitterness flooding,
I’ll lend you a scarf, if you intend to beg.
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