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