Angelo Taveggia
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His widow sobs He is dead, his debts are paid. As did his roses fade So did his life's blood go Each season new buds will form But no more for Angelo, Angelo! The rosarian Taveggia An authoritarian extrodinaire Who knew each of three hundred kinds Intimately more than he knew his wife For they were fragile, needing care Straw mulch protection from winter snow His wife was strong Angelo, Angelo! A rosary recited for Mr. Taveggia Tonight at eight Tomorrow mass at ten Where roses blanket cold hard flesh When Angel fed his plants with lifes' spent waste He bequeathed his wife A handful of butterflies
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