“Civilization began with a rose. A rose is a rose
is a rose is a rose.” -Gertrude Stein
“...when she gets to that third rose she loses me.”
-Erv Harmon
This rose I gave to Gertrude in the fall,
a yellow rose for spring and love and lust;
the third one was an eyesore, I recall.
Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso blazed our hall
and forced the careless caller to adjust;
this rose I gave to Gertrude in the fall.
The weather then broke green all over Gaul,
the roses burst, the bushes were robust:
the third one was an eyesore, I recall.
Still life brushed could not be still at all:
red roses scrambled up the wall untrussed;
this rose I gave to Gertrude in the fall.
The first rose rose rose fiercely tall,
the second rose was yellow, lovers' trust;
the third one was an eyesore, I recall.
A modern rose is summer's richest scrawl
though winter's withering leaves it undiscussed;
this rose I gave to Gertrude in the fall -
the third one was an eyesore, I recall.
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