Poor poor Primroses

Just like a primrose
You all sit in a clump
Old English roses
For fear I may like
A pale yellow you suggest
Happy and glee
The true colour of yellow
Flowers suggest jealousy
There are pink ones so rare
Found in untouched woods
Protected by warriors
In dark cloaks of hoods
The pink ones he seeks
Look for those you should
For those are the ones
To make his head turn they would
I know of his kind
Always searching a muse
Ignites them with words
Like a spark from a fuse
But a spark is no match
To one whom is fire
A constant source of fuel
It is I he wished to desire
I will feed him the words
Needed for his ideas
Like a blood thirsty leech
Until full He doth feels
I am but a ground cover
Dotted with colours of abstract
To play the game
So do not feel the wrath
Burning in you for searching
You look in wrong places
His plaything is lurking
Beneath your very noses
She is right there you see
Always has been you fools
Like Camilla to Charles
Deceit woefully ruled
So he’ll water his flowers
To keep you all wanting
And withering and drooping
Be careful
The pruning …