| A flower so tender that longs to be hurt
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| So scarlet and slender it blossoms in dirt
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| Seductive and feral so perfect in thorns
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| One kiss by its prickle and hope is forlorn
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| That roses conquer the yarns did not teach
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| But rousing and violent are kisses that breach
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| Provoked by enlightenment the siege has begun
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| A triumph of passion a war to be won
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| Intrigued by its beauty compelled by its smell
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| The scent of its petals like whispers from hell
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| The conduct of warfare extends through the night
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| The blitzkrieg of roses resolves in delight
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| A flower so tender that conquers by force
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| Seduction through conquest by roses at war
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| So tender yet forceful the flower proceeds
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| To harvest its victims in search to be pleased
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| Sweet blossom of conduct disposed to prevail
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| Advancing with triumph to vanquish avail
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| The warfare of roses sustained by the truth
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| Both pleasure and violence are there to be used
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| It knows not its beauty it tries not to dream
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| So perfect in silence it yearns to be seen
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| It wants to be picked and compelled to believe
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| That love and submission are hers to receive
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| Intrigued by its beauty compelled by its smell
|
| The scent of its petals like whispers from hell
|
| The conduct of warfare extends through the night
|
| The blitzkrieg of roses resolves in delight |