They say, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain
But I blame, in vain, the rain for the insane, you see
This plain pain hasn't the same name, nor the same game
For the rain's pain is the same sane as they claim
And since the pain's shame resides mainly in Spain,
Neither the rain nor Spain is to blame for the insane, so now
This sane can claim the uneven plane's plain's the name to blame
But the strife of life is held under the knife of a wife
Where strife runs rife throughout the wife's life
The knife, learning from the fife, plays with the life
While the fife excites life, the knife excites strife
The wife with the knife is at fault, fact or fake?
Is the knife to blame for the strife of the wife's life?
Or the fife for teaching the knife to play with strife?
This just goes to show that no one knows the real rose
For the rose, in it's thorny clothes, just shows the nose
The smell, a pose, so close, tingles the nose till it glows
But the finger, too close, chose to trust the nose's prose
Blame the rose who proposed the show and showed the pose?
Or the nose, whose clothes glowed from the smell of the rose?
The finger couldn't 'ave known the true pose of prose from the rose to the nose.