In the field there grow lovely flowers, br Growing beauty, for the world to see. br But a gardener soon comes to cut them; br An arrangement in futility. br br For all cut flowers are dead ones; br Killed, dragged out by the roots- br The bounty of earth, given all for free, br We treat as our selfish loot. br br So we mark our days with dead flowers, br Chosen special, for the event in mind; br Dead carnations, for the paler dead ones br Who've left their wilting lives behind. br br Dead roses for dead children, br For bride's whose old lives won't survive; br Dead boutonnieres, for bachelor's tears, br Who in secret for the old days pine. br br Red roses, dead in a few days time, br For the harpy or the shameless flirt- br While everybody seeing them wonders br About the facts; and what's the dirt? br br Dead flowers, from lover to beloved, br Dead flowers, in cold glass stand, br Dead flowers are our only answer; br It's always been the way of man.