That child,
looking like flowered rose,
had a rose in hand,
he smirked,
he smelled,
he shook,
and the crook,
finally wrung,
it all,
to smithreens,
with petals,
and sepals,
all strewn,
and flowery powder,
all smeared,
in his gory hands,
did he like the flower,
or the destruction more,
his story narrated all,
in the flowery gore.
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