Twelve red roses stand together,
     holding strong against the weather;
Left by him to show his sorrow
     to the one he called his own.
But while he would always love her,
     she had gone and found another;
Bedded after working hours;
     said she'd be late coming home.
And he always would believe her;
     thought that she would never roam;
          Lying in the bed alone.

Twelve weak roses bending, swaying,
     just above a corpse decaying;
Paying for the time she told him
     he was not the only one.
She confessed that she was cheating;
     told about their every meeting;
Swore the other loved her better,
     that her time with him was done;
Told him that she never loved him;
     laughed that it was just for fun;
          Her true love had just begun.
 
Twelve dead roses breaking, falling,
     as he stood above recalling
When he dragged her up the stairwell,
     telling her what she will owe.
One last time he said he loved her,
     right before he quickly shoved her;
Pushed her from the open window
     to the picket fence below.
And he watched her slowly perish,
     staring down with eyes aglow,
          From rage only he would know.
Twelve black roses lying, rotten,
     over top a love forgotten
By the one who had adored her,
     scarred forever from the pain.
Now as if he never knew her,
     he'd no longer venture to her;
Simply left her to the gravel;
     he'd no longer mourn in vain.
As the house now stood in shambles,
     with the tomb, alone and plain;
          Left there in the pouring rain...