The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud; Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud. But no amount of wishing will make them open up, Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
I want to be a rose—all proper, trim, and neat; Raised above the common, in her elevated seat. She is the lover’s flower, evoking ooohs and aaahs, The flower for which the world smiles in admirable applause. And when she goes a walking, she spreads a fragrant scent, That travelers pause in wonder to warmly compliment.