In the city of steeples, the people, they built,
Little pots for the lot of the flowers that wilt,
And the dead flower pedals they put in these pots,
And displayed quite often, to show what they've got.
These people were proud of their flowers, they say,
And they say they'd be proud of them still to this day,
If it weren't for the tourists who came to declare,
That there's nothing more weird than a dead flower fair.
"Why, its nasty!" said one man, who looked at the show.
"And they're rotting, and smelling!" said someone below.
"Here you'll see this pot here, why its covered in mold!
And this other one here has turned dry, it's so old"
Said visiting traveler Harry A. Gold.
Well the people of steeple town, wary, they said,
"But its not that the flowers we worship are DEAD!
But that flowers are perfect in all of their ways,
Even now after dying for several days."
"DISGUSTING!" said Harry. "UNCLEAN AND UNCOUTH!
I'm afraid to believe you, if that is the truth,
After all, all the flowers you show here as clean,
Are the most ugly flowers that I've ever seen!"
"I agree!" said the tourists, with Harry in front.
But the townspeople didn't yet move from the stunt.
"Well, you may find it awful, and truly we see,
How you'll find something we do unsanitary,
But we also find you all quite often in mind,
To be nearly as foreign a concept to find."
"Well certainly you find us weird," chuckled Gold.
"After all, all your minds still are really quite old.
Quite as old as the flowers!" He laughed yet again.
And the tourists laughed with him, every now and then.
"See, these flowers are sacred, and truly, they're ours.
You may find them quite weird, but you traveled so far,
Just to come see our town, and this town here is that,
Just a place full of people, where people are at."
"But we're people here too!" Harry spoke with a start,
"And its just as you said: we've all traveled so far!
And you pay is with nothing but filth and despair?
And the smell of old flower dust there in the air?"
And the tourists agreed, and some townspeople too,
Which is commonly something townspeople will do,
After all, all these flowers WERE old, and quite rotten,
And clearly the custom might best be forgotten.
For surely there isn't a reason we must
Worship ashes as ashes, or dust turned to dust,
For that in between state, clearly, that parts the best,
And there's not much concern to be had for the rest.
We are living, and living is what we should be.
No concern should be had for our past history,
Nor a wonder to have for our future, post death.
We're just rotting at that point, we're nothing, they guessed.
They threw out the flowers, they really did smell,
And displayed only flowers that looked fit to sell.
And the town filled with color more live than before,
And nobody thought about death anymore.