A dozen red roses, an anniversary gift
One of them withers, eleven are left
Eleven red roses, their scent is divine
One of them withers, just ten are mine
Ten red roses, their petals soon fall
One of them withers, nine left, that is all
Nine red roses, still a lovely bouquet
One of them withers, in mold and decay
Eight red roses, the bunch getting thin
One of them withers, now the vase holds seven
Seven red roses, a sad little offering
One of them withers, suggesting my suffering
Six red roses, into a smaller vase
One one them withers, leaves five in its place
Five red roses, just a poor few
One of them withers, like my love for you
Four red roses, wilting and sad
One of them withers, I’m feeling so bad
Three red roses, none of them gay
One of them withers, I’ve nothing to say
Two red roses, pathetic and grim
One of them withers, good riddance to him
A single red rose, the petals are dry
The last one withers, as we say goodbye
Meg Sorick, Author/Artist 