Scarlet Thorn

Forgive me, but I cannot stand the smell of haggard roses, red from man's abuse; though pleasing to the eye, the scent does tell of love that was once fair, but now cut loose. I wish to wallow in a grand bouquet comprised of roses painted like the moon, for virgin hearts are pure until they stray from gardens seeded with their fathers' boon. Tis true; an infant rose is white at birth, but there are those who live to taint the bud with careless hands, diminishing its worth because her needles drink dishonest blood. Fear not; I'd never yield a scarlet thorn, for I adore the color you were born!