Benny Bouquet was a gardener, a rare breed,
Always out there, broadcasting his seed.
To just anywhere he thought there to be need.
Consequently, there did come to be, indeed.
A veritable English country garden, all around the village,
As Bouquet did continue to woo, steal and pillage.
In consequence to his horticultural pursuits,
He sired many daughters from varied stem-shoots.
A bevy of offspring, speaking botanically,
As a result of his mannerisms so fancy free.

There was Daffodil, Hippeastrum and Hollyhock too,
Each as pretty as a tall Agapanthus blue.
Yes, Agapanthus was yet another,
Although he wasn’t sure who was her mother.
Buttercup radiant with her yellow hue,
Yet another beauty in Bouquet’s Who’s who.
By no means last, and by no means least,
Frangipani, her scent, an olfactory feast.

Delphinium, Kalanchoe, Hyacinth as well,
Each emitting a fine bouquet smell.
Dorotheansis, Hellebore and Geranium,
So many names, to fit in one’s cranium.
Chrysanthemum, Bouquet did remember her mum.
She reminded him of his other girl, Lilium.
Digitalis, Laburnum and aromatic Jasmine,
We’ve gone through this “ad hoc” list we did combine,
Rather faster than warranted, to be sure,
Which is a shame, for each has their own allure.
Seventeen differing, individual triumphs,
All of them delectable, not even any frumps.

Such a state of affairs could have gone on for longer,
But Benny Bouquet pushed his luck, his behaviour much wronger.
Until he was, by a cuckold, called to account,
This outraged citizen fill Bouquet’s lunch box with manure, quite an amount.
And then insisted he polish off the lot!
After that, Benny Bouquet just lost the plot!