The Naughty Porter’s Poppy Top-up

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.