At a Florist Shop

I’m standing here at a florist shop, For couples of minutes now, thinking Which of these flowers I’ll choose; Just for you, as a gift on our first year; I have no idea, which one to pick; They’re all fresh, pure and beautiful--- A labor of god’s gardener--- his pride; But, when I saw you on the other side, Of the street, with my best friend; French kissing him, as he holds your butt; Then, every one passing sees that you’re A perfect couple, with pure loving; Never letting go of this so-called love; Ah, you ne’er thought that I’ll be seeing you; My long silence has broken by the florist, “Sir, have you picked one!?” With low voice, almost unheard, I said: “No, I change my mind…, thank you!" Right at this moment I know, you worth not Of any of these flowers, ‘cos you’re different; Neither, you worth a cent of my loving hands.