Perennial Primrose, you're in the pink,
even though you've not a drop to drink.
Why now, of you should I think?
Why should I waste my poet's ink?
Because you're beautiful in the spring.
And appear to be such a fragile thing.
But I know better, I know the truth.
To you I am nothing, but a youth.
A Johnny-come-lately on this soil.
Long before big Texas oil.
But you are here for all time,
perennial and in your prime.
Long after the last oil is gone.
Long after this city has decayed in ruin.
Long after this earth is rust.
Long after you've lost our trust.
You will persevere and I will hold dear,
the pink promising memory of you here.
Of you popping up in a Bluebonnet patch.
Or seeing your face appear in the thatch.
Or in a nest of eggs about the hatch.
Or in the garden behind the gate latch.
Before anything is planted there.
I even see you in a maiden's hair.
Forever etched in my mind,
of that wonderful time,
when I was young and you were mine,
with Primrose hair and in your prime.