What is a rose,

When the color has been drained,

When the thorns will not refrain,

From their ordinary pain,

That so common comes to burst,

To the toucher's bane,

Unsuspecting, never thinking,

Horrid feeling, always blinking,

Never know and never quite,

Exactly sure of it's bite,

For useless you regarded it,

You thought nothing, so discarded it,

But never truly knew,

You clearly misconstrue,

A rose is still a rose,

Colorless or bland.