Twigs of trees poke and prod
Even the roots are kind of odd
I walk the road, red as can be
How could this happen to me?
The roses sink just like my eyes
All but one always dies
I spot the one, perfect and clean
I hate the way it smells to me
I pick it then, poked by thorns
The rest all yell, I ignore their warns
Why oh why is it only you
Who seems so pure, so perfect, so true?...