“My favorite flower is the rose,”

so softly spoke, she said,

“the color pink, I do suppose,

the opposite of dead.”
She wondered if he’d buy her flowers,

Or why he’d cared to know,

She waited ‘round for many hours,

Her roses never showed.

On every morn, she would walk down

The street, and he would stare,

And as she made her way ‘round town,

He always waited there.
On the corner where the men,

Would buy and sell their meat,

He waited for the time again

When she, his eyes would meet.

One sunny afternoon in May,

She wed, became a wife,

And on that very late spring day,

The man, he took his life.
His sudden death was not a myth,

And none could understand,

Why they found him lying with

Pink roses in his hand.