We plant these bulbs unendingly
in tidy rows with stone markers.
Encased in pine, draped with a flag,
a funereal good partner.
We prune the branches, stunt all growth,
sow and harvest in any clime.
While scything the indigenous,
flowers cut down before their prime.
Beneath the well manicured lawn,
behind miles of wrought iron fences,
the Gardener reaps our sacrifice,
Duty, Honor, the pretenses.
M. Zane McClellan
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