Ignore the pile of petals,

he is not upset,

and will not fret.

He's pleased that the last is gone -

that frail limb

that was on him.

For though they leave him

with no clothes,

now,

he's not a pink rose.

Yet below his unsightly features

is a lovely face,

like rare lace.

He'd ask for a kiss, however,

with he -

high on his stalk -

she would balk.

To lose his height, he would

give up everything,

and feel as a king.