Wild Roses

A rose stood at the forest's edge and shook its noble leaves, when from the nearby sturdy hedge the echo of dry heaves was heard by those three passing boars who'd paused near that small rose. They'd lifted one of their short fours and sprayed her on the nose. It seems that many passers-by would pick this forest junction to briefly stop and then let fly, relieving through this function internal pressures to the ground. And humans did the same, they often brought some city hound, to them, it seemed a game. First sniff, then shoot, then sniff again, the stench proved quite disgusting. The question posed itself, just when her petals would be rusting. Since every rose contains some steel to stand up to bad weather all damages can quickly heal, a rose is like a feather, but when it comes to being used by living things that need to pee, few flowers would be too amused to live in forests, less than free. So our rose consulted mother, who lived behind a pine, Mum said they do piss on each other, 'those humans, they are swine, they do not recognise us beauties because their eyes have been corrupted, they go about their greedy duties. Your cousin, when she was adopted by people from the river city, she was well-soaked with liquid pooh! Poor child just died and what a pity, I hope it happens not to you.' They talked some more, as roses will, about those humans and discussed the liquids that made roses ill, and why all native flowers must have fragrant air come from inside. 'It's a defence against those creeps who stop and leak where we reside.' A rose thus treated sometimes weeps.