May the roses bloom upon Willie's cross . . .
reminds me of a george jones' song.
I can hardly stand the sight of lipstick
On the cigarettes there in the ashtray.
Lying cold the way you left them,
But at least your lips caressed them
While you packed.
Or the lip print on a half-filled cup
Of coffee that you poured
And didnt drink.
But at least you thought you wanted it
Which is so much more than I can say for me.
Its been a good year for the roses
Many blooms still linger there.
The lawn could stand another mowing
Its funny, I dont even care
But as you turned and walked away
As the door behind you closes
The only thing I thought to say
Was what a good year for the roses
After three, four years of marriage
Its the first time that you havent made the bed
I guess the reason were not talking,
Is theres so little left to say that we havent said
While a million thoughts go racing through my mind
I guess I havent said a word
From the bedroom, the familiar sound
Of our one babys crying goes unheard
