She was walking down the street
With flowers in her hand
They were pretty and fresh and nice
She had them picked when it was sunshine

The SUN had its own plan, hot and warm
Sent his rays so fast and sharp
Her lovely flowers bent with his harmful flicker
They faded and didn’t look pretty, and she was unhappy

“What good these flowers are for me All faded an dead?”
She just threw it away and walked away from them
Flowers were pretty. Flowers were fresh
But now they lay a miserable death.


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