Blood is red.
Bruises are blue.
You sing afflicted amenities,
so I'll sing them too.
One of these days the grass will be green,
but you will be too bitter to see it.
I'll dream of you as I do everyday,
at night I'll pray to repose.
During the Summer I'll collect all of the lillies,
and you will scream, to try to make them grow.
Even after they have all wilted and died.
We will all look back in denial, with tears in our eyes.