Botanists Poem by M. A Heathcote

She ran headlong far away in disgust.
From her prize dahlia, like it had black flies.
Was it withered up when about to hybridise?
Couldn't she spare some water for its dust?
What's happening that you are this robust?
Uncaring, why snap it then so obliquely?
A thing that wasn't yours, completely, not chiefly.
My sweet 'Flower' comes; let us not mistrust.
Yes, of course, let us look out for earwigs.
Other bugs, yes, we need to stake it, cane it.
Manure it; give plenty of love and care.
That's when it transfixes all those glitches.
Seen, unveiled by judges, who'll approve it?
Say it's the best on the show, way beyond compare.