Anti-Ode: Lily In The Vase
Oh, Lily, I did not expect thee,
your essence erased from my memory.
My, my, we meet again,
Your once forgotten smell,
nay, pong, I rightly say,
has besieged my nasal cavity.
Why, now, after all these years, must we meet again?
‘Must’, Aye! For that your presence is,
an antique wardrobe re-opened,
a grandma-scented knicker drawer,
a must I must forbear.
You are a birthday gift for Mother,
a romantic gesture,
in a marriage long-lived,
I must leave you alone.
You, with pride of place, the table in the hall,
Your fumes, slowly creeping,
ensconce all rooms by stealth.
“You either love them or hate them,” quothe Mother.
Well, such consolation for my infected nostrils,
I shall pass the sentiment on.
I would not wish you for myself,
not even on my grave,
thou odious, olfactious, weed of nature.
Though beguiling in aspect,
with a countenance one might say graceful,
But if thou must be must and mothball smelling,
I would we had never met.