Dark Rose of England
Oh Dark Rose of England, your not the pale colour you usually find in the English countryside.
Oh Dark Rose of England, your beauty is more than just your colour, you display such beauty and elegance, your the envy of all other flowers
Your petals are dark red the colour of blood, I wonder what it is you feed upon.
Are you fed from below by the blood found deep beneath the ground.
Are your roots buried deep within, a graveyard previously used for sin, murder by the first degree or people slaughtered ritually.
Your stalks ramble and roam over the land, covering it in a prickly hand.
Ready to prick someone in a flash, should anyway get too close, defending yourself, making a stand.
You invade spaces, wrapping your shoots around objects in the way, then carry on rambling, nothing gets in your way.
The only way to stop you in your track, is to take a pair of shears and begin to hack.
Hacking away at your limbs, bringing you to your knees, pruning away the dead wood and leaves.
It will not rid you permanently, one thing is for certain, you'll be back again next year we'll never bring down the curtain.