Gene Moutoux's Poetry
"What noisome smell preponderates, my dear?
"I know it not, for I’m a stranger here."
Thus spoke a recent visitor of mine.
We strolled my garden’s paths while sipping wine.
"A garden should be redolent of flowers,
A pleasant place to wile away the hours."
"It is a flower you smell, my dear," I said,
"You’ll see, a few more paces, straight ahead."
"Peruse all garden literature; methinks
You’ll find no mention of a flower that stinks."
Ah, that," I said, "you really must recant."
Forthwith my guest began to rave and rant:
"Opprobrious a garden with such junk,
Obtuse the gardener, or maybe drunk.
A parody of gardens it must be.
The owner’s name will live in infamy."
The flower stood before us, three feet wide,
And still my guest its stench could not abide:
"This flower is a skunk, a piece of dung."
"They named it after you, dear: ‘Devil’s Tongue.’"
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