The bloomin’ rose and myself are foes.
I hate the things on sight.
Every one that’s born is equipped with a thorn,
And aphids, and mildew, and blight.

Every one that’s boxed costs more than my socks,
And my watch, and my tie, and my suit.
But, I must come through with a bloom or two
Or be ever labeled a brute.

For my everlove sighs with so soft eyes
When she sees a prickly bud.
And the thanks she shows curls up my toes
And makes me feel like a stud.

So I pay the bills, and endure the frills,
‘Cause I love the reward it brings.
‘Tho how old I grow, I’ll never know
Just what she sees in the things.

©R. Bartly Betts, 2001