Rotten Flowers in my Pocket

i have in my pocket a flower or two
for boys who i once thought i knew
for boys who were lovely before they all rotted
and so i will count just a few

the first is an old one, or young one back then
whose name can still fill me with dread
who carried a shovel around with a bucket
which somehow came down on my head

the next was a nice boy, a sweet one in fact
who really did nothing too bad
all that he did was be nice and look pretty
to then move away with his dad

and now there’s a flower for three-fingered boy
or eight i suppose you could say
who with his three fingers could still reach my eyeballs
to take all my daylight away

add a few years and some make-up and hair
that made me feel pretty and bright
and here is a flower for one who once told me
that somehow i wasn’t quite right

i think he was was friends with the sweet-talking charmer
the boy with the beautiful smile
who charmed his way in to a heart worn too thin
just to tell me i wasn’t worthwhile

and now here’s a flower for more than just one
the boy on which i could depend
who traded me lunches and stood by my lockers
then somehow forgot we were friends

and this is the bad boy who wasn’t so bad
whose life was just really quite sad
who told me he loved me then took it away
like love could be given or had

the next is a flower that hasn’t quite rotted
a flower still redder than black
a nice boy who told me he loved me and meant it
but still, in the end, took it back

i have in my pocket a flower or two
for boys who all used to be you
for boys who were lovely before they all rotted
and someday, boy, you will rot too

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