Why is a new rose born to be
A white rose, not an apple tree?
I don't suppose a small rose knows
It'll be a rose, not be me
I wonder why I'm not a rose
I've asked around, nobody knows
I'm sure rose likes to be a rose
I'm not free, but glad to be me
A white rose has no choice, it's white
It doesn't fight, it does what's right
The pinks are pink, the reds are red
Then when they're dead they're brown instead
When a child, I did not suspect
That one day people could change sex
And also, those who could change, would
And thought that it would do them good
Maybe one day, nobody knows
Both you and I could be a rose
And a rose could be you, or me
What next?Who knows? What'll be will be.
Maybe a rose will have a choice
And we'll give each new rose a voice
To be red, blue, black or yellow
Change to match it's near bed fellow
Maybe a rose will choose to be
A car, an elephant or star
That's too complicated for me
I think I like things as they are.
It's great to give sight to the blind
Let them be surprised by photos
But when I paint, or plant a rose
I don't want it to change its mind
To turn into a cauliflower
Or change its mind every hour
That would give the creator tears
So evolution takes us years.
Why is a new rose born to be
A white rose, not an apple tree?
I know but no little rose knows
I'm smart, you see, I'm glad I'm me
I'm glad that you have stuck with me
You learn a lot from poetry.
-ends-
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