Oh, sweet rose, don't you know
that someday you are destined to die.
Slowly at first, withering, wilting.
At every petal that falls, you will cry.
Dear, sweet rose, your thorns they will prick
and spill the blood of your lover fair.
Don't you know that he will die as well?
Don't you two make a lovely pair...
Sweet rose, in death you will be ugly,
breaking at the most tender touch.
The wind will scorch, the river dry,
and pain will consume you much.
For there is no after-life for the murderer,
and rose, dear, you will kill.
Your lover will lift your dying frame
only to bleed out; drink your fill.
