On Monet's Poppy Field
Saw death rise from the dirt
Pitty! Such a pleasure to wield
But it makes us so hurt

So alike the poppies I see
In your bright greenish eyes
That somehow say to me
'You can avoid sad goobyes'

'Why not here? Nice bed!'
Sorry, don't mean to annoy
And make you be led
To my arms of unjoy
Making your sleep so sad