I went to see the “Rose of Wonderland”.
“A flower fit for princes,” I was told,
With yellow hue as bright as burnished gold,
And sized to fit exactly in a hand.
The pamphlets all extolled this floral gem:
“The bush is truly grand,” did one declare,
While others praised “the sweetness … on that stem”,
Or told of “lasting beauty, past compare”.
I paid my fee to walk within the wall,
And found that tree-filled garden held no rose.
It took some time to find the flowers: small,
And far to high for scents to reach the nose.
I left betrayed, and only now I know:
Sweet, rounded fruit from apple flowers grow.