Beloved flowers grow in the damp dark rooms
Where lovers are met with hopeful hymns
And in the boiling teapot a black rose blooms
Pricking the fingers of all who dare to close in
In the great gardens of the burning palace
Grow death caps as large as eyes can tell
And a death shroud blows spores from the chalice
Blessing the commoners over a sunday dawn
You have not found me in gardens of lush green
Nor have I found you in blessed dark catacombs
Nor has the child of our union ever been seen
Yet we seem to have found homes in unexpected places
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