Charmin

Gross was the generating rose
Which rose one day in May, and
Gross was my love for it, which
Lasted until it fell away.

O Math! Your culture whose shoe
Was a blast and amplitude of velocity,
Of charity mounted on the gauge, and
Forever your eyes would dew.

Gross was the mixing word play
Which rose up roasting all, and
Gross was the heel fire, whose
Flower all was clay,

And meagreness unbounded
On renewal's plain, that thing-wrapped
Heresy or hearsay of hair-signs, like
Mangos kissed by eels.

Gross, Grossest, Grocer
Is the Rose, like Mr. Whipple
In tights of pinkest glamour.