Paint The Red Rose Blue

He was the youngest of five and the only son He called his wife by a nickname as his father had done Not the root, not the branch, not the flower or stem He had the wildest of dreams but he rarely remembered them Turn the red rose Paint the red rose blue What was he to do? But turn the red rose Turn the red rose Paint the red rose blue What was he to do? But turn the red rose The words that came to him Both the lies and the threats They arrived all too easily But they ran up some debts From the thunder of a pulpit To the whispers of a lover 'Til he found that he couldn't tell one from the other Turn the red rose Paint the red rose blue What are we to do? But paint the red rose Turn the red rose Paint the red rose blue What are we to do? But paint the red rose He haunted the shadows And waited until They had secrets to sell him And some practical skill Theatrical blood is convenient to spill He turned on the light switch and watched her undress Oh, you'd never guess What came next, unless He said "All of these hours that I've skulked in the shade The sun never struck me or made me afraid Now she and I share unspeakable pain I have to believe in something, in anything" Turn the red rose Paint the red rose blue There's nothing left to do but paint the red rose Paint the red rose Turn the red rose blue There's nothing left to do but paint the red rose blue