Yes, it is true, in the garden I did not grow
But in the old hedge row
When all the others were picked and gone
I was over looked and weathered on
I’d often dream that I was too
you know, a gift, like lovers do
But I was there on the row
the marge of garden where no lovers go
Spring passed to summer and summer fall
and I thought once more, is this all?
If only I had not been on the hedge above
I’d been the gift of precious love
Air turned cooler, evenings cold
thoughts of lovers painfully old
Faded flower, life at its close
and what do you suppose?
I’d never die or fade away
nothing ever ends that way
But would you for a moment, just suppose….
had you picked me, I was once a crimson rose