The moon chased the sun across the sky
but the grand old owl languished in the warm dark.
She sat in her high tower as the night went by
and dirty old men destroyed children in the park.
The Wilde rose, crimson burns bright
stained with the blood of a lark.
The moonlit sky fills it with fright,
Frail and pale- faced, tears douse the spark.
Perhaps tomorrow the owl will fly,
the frail rose, opalescent once more,
but tonight we shiver in the darkness,
tonight the rose is a whore.
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