Cut Flowers

Oh flowsy blowsy daffodils
How you flaunt your flutes 
So torrid in your florid notes
Brazen trumpets toot
You’re a riot not a patch
And a cluster not a clump 
And cut won’t last a fortnight
So I’ll see you at the dump

Yes, I piss on you narcissuses 
So suddenly in bloom
Wild in your capriciousness
To wilt so sudden and so soon  
The emblem of the world’s ills
Whorish, boorish, floral scum
So I piss on you all daffodils
For growing where we buried mum.

We had no reason to suspect The Author has an irrational hatred of flowers, though it might be inferred from His irrational hatred of everything else. This short piece was thrust through my letterbox on mother’s day, on a card bound with rusty wire to a bunch of decaying daffodils. The daffs (of which I am particularly fond as they announce the change of season and an end to the dark days of winter) had plainly been torn up – roots and all – and I suspect the wire was similarly ‘foraged’.

We can assume this a companion piece to the the direct homage/theft Worth Words. The implication that He is outside, this time, is pleasing and I wonder if perhaps He too may secretly enjoy the Spring? I picture The Author recreating Wordsworth’s walks. However, as in our modern countryside it can be tough to “wander lonely” with many walks being both circumscribed and thronged: soon enough the rage overtakes Him! Blaming those vales and hills and finally settling on daffodils the lonely cloud likely storms through a fence or two to rend some plants. Classic.

Although, to return from speculation to the text, we are offered a rare psychological insight. That final line twists and refocusses the verse: perhaps we should consider the irrational hatred, rational after all?

First draft circa Mar 2026

Rough performance time - 0 minutes, 40

Performed once

Date	Venue
10th Mar 2026	Laureate's Lounge, Staines