The roses were proclaimed dead
By the house on the hill, where the mayor wed
His bride unknowing of the rot below
Where only the creeping vermin go
To wonder why wilted blooms are still red.

But we are not to question what the mayor said
Nor peek inside the bolted shed
Where under doors, streaks of light show
But it is true no more.

Mad minds and goblets made of lead
The secret thrives where sin is fed
Making thirsty crimson petals grow
Knowing the price of pain is of a golden glow
And that people were once wary of where they tread
But it is true no more.