All's Fair...

Let’s limp past the roses
And not stop to smell,
The fetid pedals of lost poses
And that scent of burning Hell.

I should drag you away
To save you the pain
Of seeing the white rose you let go
Die and turn red in the waning day.

Hush your whimpers
And mute your whines,
I’ll be back with the clippers
All in due time.

And then, when you hobble,
Broken and sore,
Past that flowered cobble
It won’t hurt anymore.

That is, unless,
Your blood and scabs
Leave you blank and painless:
Still and frozen in bed.

Then, I’ll limp back to the roses,
Stop, and have my pick.
Because, before this war closes,
I swear I will not leave sick.