I taught a portly porter proper water regulation
When he had chosen hosing all the poppies in the station.
I suggest it best, I thought, to water from a can,
As candidly, the hose he chose would leave them weak and wan.
This stocky station-stocker thought me odd and off my rocker,
Retorting with a snort to leave my comments in a locker,
He thence commenced to recompense a-plenty on the flowers,
Which cowered, crumpled, ripped and slipped; de-pipped beneath the showers.
I worries for the sorried poppies flailing in their bed,
Ailing, failing, petals sailing deadly overhead,
Heading to a flooden, sodden, whirling early grave,
Until the kill was still, with next to nothing left to save.
They fought the haughty porter and his hyper-pressure hose,
But sadly couldn’t counter the amount of fountain-blows.
My train of thought was fraught, I ought’ve got him to refrain,
But who’d have cried for poppy-cide, thought I inside the train.
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