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The Red Rose
There was once a red, red rose,
Who stood very tall and proud.
Its slender stalk swayed to the breeze,
and its lovely petals blossomed,
Most beautifully to the clouds.
"I am the most lovely of all flowers," said the rose to himself.
"None is to compare with myself."
Proud was this red rose indeed,
That he thought himself quite unique.
His crimson petals gleamed in the golden sunlight,
And scarcely a chance missed he,
To gloat to the other flowers.
"Such a haughty rose!" The other flowers would exclaim.
The red rose was disliked by his neighbours,
But never a care did he give to it.
"What's it to me anyway?" said the rose all to himself.
"It's naught to me that they hate me so.
I am afterall, the loveliest."
One day, a young damsel walked in the garden,
Where grew this very rose,
And she caressed and pampered each flower.
"Pick me, pick me!" hollered each flower,
As the damsel contemplated every one of them.
The red rose bothered not himself,
But tilted he to the sun,
As he fluttered his stalk to the gentle breeze,
And dazzled his charming petals,
In the evening sunset.
The damsel drew nigh the rose,
And bowed he to her in the deepest respect.
"A beauty beyond comparison," Exclaimed the damsel,
And she praised and caressed the red rose.
The rose grew redder and redder with each praise,
And he shook his head, as the damsel plucked him.
So, took the blushing rose by the damsel,
Whilst the other flowers paled in jealousy.
"That's quite unfair!" shrieked the flowers.
Whilst the rose smiled all to himself.
"I shall adorn the damsel's dwelling.
"The perfume of my scent,
Shall indeed embrace her home."
With each passing second,
The red rose grew paler and paler,
And by the evening of the next day,
The rose was terribly wilted,
And had lost it's lovely hue.
"Oh, behold not my horrible sight!"
Wailed the now ugly rose.
The other flowers laughed and mocked,
At the poor dear rose.
"Serves him right," agreed the flowers.
"Life is indeed unfair!" lamented the red rose.
"I was once a beauty to behold,
Now I lie wilted and forgotten,
In my grave of tears!"
And so, breathed the rose its very last.
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Who stood very tall and proud.
Its slender stalk swayed to the breeze,
and its lovely petals blossomed,
Most beautifully to the clouds.
"I am the most lovely of all flowers," said the rose to himself.
"None is to compare with myself."
Proud was this red rose indeed,
That he thought himself quite unique.
His crimson petals gleamed in the golden sunlight,
And scarcely a chance missed he,
To gloat to the other flowers.
"Such a haughty rose!" The other flowers would exclaim.
The red rose was disliked by his neighbours,
But never a care did he give to it.
"What's it to me anyway?" said the rose all to himself.
"It's naught to me that they hate me so.
I am afterall, the loveliest."
One day, a young damsel walked in the garden,
Where grew this very rose,
And she caressed and pampered each flower.
"Pick me, pick me!" hollered each flower,
As the damsel contemplated every one of them.
The red rose bothered not himself,
But tilted he to the sun,
As he fluttered his stalk to the gentle breeze,
And dazzled his charming petals,
In the evening sunset.
The damsel drew nigh the rose,
And bowed he to her in the deepest respect.
"A beauty beyond comparison," Exclaimed the damsel,
And she praised and caressed the red rose.
The rose grew redder and redder with each praise,
And he shook his head, as the damsel plucked him.
So, took the blushing rose by the damsel,
Whilst the other flowers paled in jealousy.
"That's quite unfair!" shrieked the flowers.
Whilst the rose smiled all to himself.
"I shall adorn the damsel's dwelling.
"The perfume of my scent,
Shall indeed embrace her home."
With each passing second,
The red rose grew paler and paler,
And by the evening of the next day,
The rose was terribly wilted,
And had lost it's lovely hue.
"Oh, behold not my horrible sight!"
Wailed the now ugly rose.
The other flowers laughed and mocked,
At the poor dear rose.
"Serves him right," agreed the flowers.
"Life is indeed unfair!" lamented the red rose.
"I was once a beauty to behold,
Now I lie wilted and forgotten,
In my grave of tears!"
And so, breathed the rose its very last.
© All Rights Reserved
