Flowers (Bastards)

They're planning something.

Trust me.

They come across so innocent, on lush grass verges waving gently in the spring breeze but... you'll see.

And we go to them oblivious,

Hose pipes and watering cans in hand,

We give them pet names like Alan and Dave or Betty,

Whilst their pollen swells up our every gland. (Which isn't always a bad thing I admit, but)

Be honest with yourselves, can you really rely on a tulip a daffodil, a Crocus?

One sniff and the first thing to go is your focus.

Then you loose consciousness,

Then suddenly an arm falls off (well that is rare, true, but)

You sneeze, you cough,

you try to escape, staggering blindly off,

...but they're everywhere.

Insidious, plotting, they already have their agents among us,

And all the time you thought that Titmarsh bloke was human? He's not... He's a fungus.

I like concrete, me!

You know where you are with slabs of Grey.

But even then mad old ladies with ‘floural' Laura Ashley dresses invade our every urban sanctuary, deciples of Satan with their pots of pansies,

And Hey...

Everyone knows ‘pansy' is just another word for ‘Viola Wittrockiana' which is as good as saying:

"We're going to kill you all!" (I think)

And so I hide,

I trust no one and my suspicions I never confide,

But the evidence is there plainly to see,

The Nuremberg Rallies of Horticulture,

The obscenity that is ‘Chelsea'