The oaks and the vines
And the branches entwined
Around my heart
And a melancholy winding
Led to my depart
And it was clear
That you were not here
For the roses
And you stood watch over a man-made lake
You ain’t no saint
Of the roses

And you wore
Paper-thin sleeves
In this mire of thorns
And with ill fate we lay beneath
Oh that white cross
Bearing this long loss
And with ill fate we lay beneath
Oh that white cross
Bearing this loss
And I shall, continue to make, bouquets of roses from this fate

And so I shall continue to make
Bouquets of roses
From this fate