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