The Lovely White Flowers that Smell of Poo

The daisies, from a distance,
Are majestic, tall, and bright.
Their stems are green and sturdy,
Their stiff, splayed petals white.

Joy tickles me to see them,
Like static fountain spray,
Robustly flowing up from dirt
In cascading display.

However, when I wander up
To gaze in closer thanks,
My nose obstructs my gratitude,
Detecting something rank.

Could it be my cat has shat here?
Is something rotting in our midst?
Could a nearby human’s flatulence
Be what I have sniffed?

More likely it’s the flower,
So pure and proud and stinky,
That’s tricked me with its loveliness
And proved itself so hinky.

But what to me repugnates
Is to flies divine bouquet.
Fooled to think they’ve found poop,
They merrily pollinate.

And so is confirmed the wisdom
About judging books by covers,
Or flowers by their looks or smells,
Or discounting flies as lovers.