A Rose is Just a Rose

A rose is just a rose It's not by any other name It isn't Summer or Spring or lovers or anything like that, It isn't Christ or England or York, wars have been named after, but not fought over them People have cared for them and grown them and picked them and hid them in places and put them under things and on top of others and inside boxes

It's a red, but it isn't a pinkie or a commie, or a Brit or a Mick or a Spic or a span. It isn't a dandelion or a dinosaur or a can of soup or a spare key or a shoelace with one aglet missing or a copy of the New York Times from April 11th of 1967, or a small bit of rubber that fell off of something that you bought a long time ago and now you've lost the thing it came off of and all that's left of it is the small bit of rubber which is no good anymore. Lots of things aren't roses, but there's only one thing in the whole wide world that isn't not a rose.

It's a flower. It looks lovely and it's fairly often red, though it can certainly be other colours and it smells sweet too.

It's a fucking rose.