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.