Do not smell the Roses

There are no sidewalks in Pleasantville
To attract the riffraff or those
Who would stop to smell
The Roses that the residents have worked
So hard to pay their gardeners
To plant for them,
Whose hands are in the raw, sweet earth, 
While their hands are in the air
And their heads are in the numbers that abstractly reflect
The money they must abstractly reflect on endlessly
While depriving themselves of the pleasures
Of the earth --
And of the Rose --
To maintain.