wb :

What cruel vices poets do inflict
upon the fright, unknowing, youthful world;
upon an early morning interdict
with Language's faint and frivolous curls
a flower I find I can no longer smell
without immediately thinking of a bell
and rhyme's tyranny I patiently bore
until my coffee turned a metaphor

what beauty justifieth this torment?
in time each word must surely lose its power
a symbol of some artist's discontent?
i much rather call a flower a flower

this was written one disgruntled night
by a poet short on sleep and sight.