Real princess. Her red skirt flutters in the wind while she laughs at the man snickering quasi on her green, slender waist, and is calling it, is calling it. A clever man does not let it seduce himself because he knows it, on the princess’s truth delicate. Flaunts in her green field ballroom, but if he starts ailing in the gaudiest vase in the house. The man pours a crystal clear spring water or the purling, playful brook water, the princess vainly into his water even parches. She is Poppy.

She is not a big princess how they believe it. She does not have a magnificent perfume yet, as opposed to Lily of the valley, Violet, you are with the queen of the flowers, Rose.
Poppy drinks the water gained from the land only. Spring water, brook water, tapwater never. But is her cousin,  Tulip! A fragrance is not at his disposal, but we may face him in a tile, a garden. Poppy is not putting in her foot there. That is her root, they do not have foot for their flower. She does not go in because her mother-in-law, Geranium live in the window there only already.
She does not have a fragrance, too. She smells. Maybe this reason that way, that Poppy does not live in gardens…

Excuse me because of the misspellings, I prepared the text with a dictionary