Punning with flowers: a modern love story!
By the 15th of August, 2007, he had been pursuing Chris for a long time.
When he saw no one singing the Jana Gana Mana, he exclaimed, “Chris, anthem mum?! What’s the madder with you?”
“Hellebore me not, you lily-livered pansy! Oh, I squash guys like you with my lady slippers! All you want is some honeysuckle,” she replied sagely.
Sloe to take her rebuke, he cloverly spruced up his looks, but (he thought) the cowslips did not move at all in appreciation. Another failure.
He then tried meeting her with a friend: “This is Brocco-a-Li, he works in Lahore.”
“What, a Chinese Pak Choy’s meeting a Geisha Girl, is that what you think?”
Nodding onion, he cried out, “Lotus be together, you birch! Or else I will go cuckoo and pink in the face, while you strut around like a fat hen.”
She told him with kindness, “Try to be poplar, like our President, Mr. Indigo Bush. At the very least, get your Swollen Stem Most’ard or leek your way to success. Let your willow do the talking.”
He rose from the bed, her bud unattended, somewhere near the broom cupboard. He didn’t want to salsify the bitter truth, and tell her she did not mean the cosmos to him. For this kind of mistake he would have suffered a rap on his carpels, and that, surely, would have been his luvender! He turned to her and said, “Forget-me-not!”