The rose

The bloom is off the rose,
too late, too late.
Should have made hay with the sunshine,
now it's rotting in the field.

The bloom is off the rose,
too late, too late.
You've made your bed,
and if your bedfellows are strange,
you've got to lie in it now.

The bloom is off the rose,
too late, too late.
I remember when your passing sparked a reflexive surge of hormones, but
the bloom is off the rose.