You are not, what folks would ever call a weed, br you blossomed well inside the attic of my mind, br have been there, seemingly and large as life, indeed, br a spark of beauty and of goodness, what a find! br br I was, just to be different, really set to send to you br a weed of many colours and of fragrant hues, br but then, a little birdie whispered, giving me a clue br one cannot pick a stinging nettle, hence I choose br br a red and purple scrumptious rose, picked in the night, br I kissed its petals just to send my love along, br and in the morning, when the sun sends out its timid light br there is a troubadour outside who sings for you his song.