I just found out that flowers have an odour
And I can't smell them because of a disorder
The only fragrance that they have for me
Is a faint tinge of wet grass
For years I thought you were all lying
Roses are red, violets are blue
Flowers don't smell, that's untrue
And that's the difference between me and you
I thought you were so overwhelmed by their beauty
That you'd invented an aroma to match how they looked
And it was, and it was, an agreed deceit
But now I realise that's the arrogance of ego
Roses are red, violets are blue
Flowers don't smell, that's untrue
You're lying about the smell
As far as I can tell
And that's the problem here, so insincere
But why, oh why, would you invent a scent?
Your experience is never universal
Other people's reality is not bound to how you perceive it
The parameters of existence don't start and stop with you, oh oh
Your nuances are not factual
And culture is not inherent
And the value of nostalgia is a personal ransom
The flower on the tenement roof feels rain before the others
And the flower on the pavement feels rain rise from the gutters
Flowers have an odour
Yeah, flowers have an odour
When you bloom, when you bloom
When you bloom, others will bloom with you
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