Roses are red; violets are blue,
This is the kind of thing I said to you.
Roses are dying; violets are dead,
I can’t forget all of the things that YOU said.

Suppose all the crying’s ‘cause the pilot has fled,
Tears level buildings, much less than I’ve shed.
Moses was right; violence is wrong,
Pray for me and hope that the tablets are strong.

Repose in my bed whilst millions lie too,
Hoods cover falsely; only one north is true.
Violins are playing: losers are bled,
Carrion on, whilst to crows they are fed.

Silence is golden, like the gun at my head,
Bullets are always so easily lead.
Blue leads to anger; red is the mist,
If only I’d known all of this when we kissed.

Roses aren’t ready, away violets blew
I really can’t say that I know what I knew.