Roses

Oft he sought the perfect rose,

Enjoyed the flower where it grows.

Soon he found the blooms did pall,,

His dalliances they turn to gall.

Still he after pleasure strove,

Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.

Thorns they speared him through the heart,

Still his desire did not depart.

They found him lying on a bed cold,

In his hand a fading rose.

 

 

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