Roses are red.
On Valentine’s Day he bought a card,
An explosion of hearts and roses.
It had a verse,
But really he bought it for the pictures.
Besides it was cheap.
Still, it’s the thought that counts,
Although the envelope was battered.
The price was pencilled on the back
And he didn’t have a rubber.
But you can’t put a price on love can you?
So it didn’t seem matter.
All the love that history knows,
Is said to be in every rose.
Yet all that could be found in two,
Is less than what I feel for you.
(Happy Valentine’s Day)
He placed the card upon the shelf.
It’d sit there for a week or two,
Then he’d throw it away.
Disguising it with the bottom of the bin.
A small and quite unnecessary sin.
He held the card and longingly wished,
This thing of memories and sentiment,
That he had somewhere to send it.
An explosion of hearts and roses.
It had a verse,
But really he bought it for the pictures.
Besides it was cheap.
Still, it’s the thought that counts,
Although the envelope was battered.
The price was pencilled on the back
And he didn’t have a rubber.
But you can’t put a price on love can you?
So it didn’t seem matter.
All the love that history knows,
Is said to be in every rose.
Yet all that could be found in two,
Is less than what I feel for you.
(Happy Valentine’s Day)
He placed the card upon the shelf.
It’d sit there for a week or two,
Then he’d throw it away.
Disguising it with the bottom of the bin.
A small and quite unnecessary sin.
He held the card and longingly wished,
This thing of memories and sentiment,
That he had somewhere to send it.
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