Nobody Sends Flowers To Me

I have been working in this flower shop,
for more days than I care to remember.
I have been sending people flowers,
from the first of January to the last day of December.

And although I don’t regret one single bloom,
sometimes it’s hard,
to know I’ll never see my name written on a card.

I’ve sent bouquets of roses,
and violets in posies,
In bowsies to hundreds of homes.
I’ve sent peach pink camellias,
and bell shaped abelia,
Surrounded by cute little gnomes.
Then those gorgeous magnolia,
and pots of begonia,
and lilies resplendant to see.
But despite every crocus,
and iris and lotus,
Nobody sends flowers to me.

I’ve sent huge amaryllis,
and striped mirabilis,
and tulips from old Amsterdam.
All those brilliant clianthus,
and bright red disanthus,
To countries from here to Siam,
And those pot calendula,
Divine campanula,
Salarnum, silene and sweet pea.
But despite each erinus,
and fig and lapinus,
Nobody sends flowers to me.

I hate each pulsatilla.
Every mandevilla,
hydrangea and lime sanseveria.
I see no justicia,
When gold walsteinia,
and gladdies and daffs leave me close to wisteria!

I’ve sent white oleander,
and bright allamandra,
and millions of trillium plants.
Aphelandra squarrosa,
Truly gloriosa,
to mothers and lovers and aunts.
But despite each galunthus,
I’ve sent in abundus.
And maples flown in from kochi,
It’s a solidaster,
‘cos nobody aster,
Nobody sends flowers to me.

I look to the fuschia,
and what do I see?
Lots of flowers,
for whom can they be?
For anyone other than this bloomin’ flower,
For nobody sends flowers to me.
No.
Nobody sends flowers to me!