You could say that you were just like a flower,
You have beauty,
And it grows by the hour,
And you're not like the types that are completely moody,
But you are rather kind,
And when people stare,
You do not mind,
And you do not care,
But what happens in winter?
The flower withers,
And the pedals go thither,
And the leaves go hither,
But what about yourself?
Can you say the same?
Is your beauty stored lamely upon the shelf?
And must your hideusness be tamed?
There are too many problems when comparing beauty to a flower,
For we do not want it to wither.