Roses have the sharpest thorns
That stain with blood and ***** the flesh
causing but new pain afresh.

And violets? Weeds that strangle all
the weaker, finer buds of spring,
smothering, choking each tiny thing.

With thorn and coil, these flowers of love
are but a boil, a cancer that blights
the subtle, the frail, the fragile, the slight.  

Their promises sour, their perfume is stale.
I don’t want your roses or violets or tales
of longing, devotion, or how you’ll assail
the enemy, the beast.  You no doubt will fail.

So give me a lily, a flower of death.
Or give me an iris, or maybe the breath
of a baby, an orchid. Any will do.
But if you bring roses and violets, we’re through.