railroad yard in San Jose 
       I wandered desolate 
in front of a tank factory 
       and sat on a bench 
near the switchman's shack. 

A flower lay on the hay on 
       the asphalt highway 
—the dread hay flower 
       I thought—It had a 
brittle black stem and 
       corolla of yellowish dirty 
spikes like Jesus' inchlong 
       crown, and a soiled 
dry center cotton tuft 
       like a used shaving brush 
that's been lying under 
       the garage for a year. 

Yellow, yellow flower, and 
       flower of industry, 
tough spiky ugly flower, 
       flower nonetheless, 
with the form of the great yellow 
       Rose in your brain! 
This is the flower of the World.