The Red. Red? No.

The Red. Red? No.

Burns wrote about the red, red rose.
That’s what his love was like.
If love is like a prickly shrub,
Then Burns can take a hike.

My love is like a Zephirine Druouin,
The rose without a thorn;
The luscious pink lax bourbon
That be-scents the early morn.

And, through the day, its petals
Open to the warming sun,
And it perfumes the evening through,
Until the day is done.

So you can keep your red, red rose,
O windswept northern bard.
Perhaps you need the thorns up there,
Where weather, it is hard.

But I prefer the gentle breeze,
And balmy southern day,
Where I can watch the pink, pink rose,
So fragrantly display.