You had taken a rose from the bouquet your dad gave me and insisted it was yours.
You looked so dainty in your red bows and Sunday dress, holding a velvet rose we sing about.
As soon as the door opened, you threw dainty to the wind. You climbed on walls, ran in mud and started collecting sticks. Dressed in red bows, holding your velvet rose.
You laughed and you explored, and you stopped, and you investigated. In the end, you carefully took apart the flower and asked me to fix it once you finally saw what was in the center. You left your sticks in a growing collection on the porch.
With dirty knees, you asked me for a song about a rose.