The bloomin’ rose and myself are foes.
And I hate the things on sight.
Each that’s born is equipped with a thorn,
And aphids, and mildew, and blight.
Each one that’s boxed costs more than my socks,
My watch, my tie, and my suit.
But, I must come through with one or two
Or forever be named a brute.
For everlove sighs with so soft eyes
When I give her a thorny bud.
And the thanks she shows curls up my toes
And she makes me feel like a stud.
So I pay the bills for rosy frills,
‘Cause I love the reward it brings.
‘Tho how old I grow, I’ll never know
How on earth she can stand the things.
All about those nasty, money-draining roses