My Father Was A Unicorn

My father was a unicorn my mother a red rose, then I (the little one) was born with an exquisite nose. I love the scent of anemones though orchids leave me cold, my skin was soaked with pheromones but now I'm simply old. Remembering the unicorn who loved his little rose, they cultivated one small thorn in poetry and prose. As mother finally fell ill I was a tiny tot, she called me 'little Daffodil', though Daffodil I'm not. The fever turned her petals black and, dying, she called out: 'if there is one thing that you lack it is your father's clout.' The moment mother passed away I groomed my dainty nose, to make a bigger passageway and please my mother Rose. The genes however had me pinned so I ignored her scorn my looks had changed but when I grinned I was no unicorn.