what a rose,
he, henry.
what a rose,
with cotton thorns.
cotton touch,
and lips of wine,
how i wish
he could be mine.
what a glance,
his eyes of pine,
let’s share a dance,
please, don’t be shy.
a twist, a turn,
and down the hill,
it heats, the burn,
it always will.
what a rose,
a rose that’s bending.
bending,
with my every touch,
it is time i stop pretending
no one could carry disaster such.
