Such Flora Balms Our Male Wits

There are perfumes unmixed, so rare and pure That without loitering, heavenly spore They fill our five senses-forevermore. All we'll do is pray, worship and deplore. Or say she's sold her soul, that she's a whore; Such flora balms our male wits pre-war. Yet, its love that tempers men immature, It's that fresh affection we-find-amour When we find her clothes on the kitchen floor; Petals-abandoned, it's when we mature. And find a blossom with a sweet allure One we would keep all others is manure. Such eternal fragrances are not impure. Earthly, they're just out of place for sure.