The rose becomes the irony when I give it to you; it's pretty, if not perfect, but pretty good will do; when everybody knows that only rose is pure while true. So what am I in imperfection, else dishonest too? And every time we kiss, our lips tell more and more a lie, 'cause yours don't say you love me, and mine won't say goodbye.

Ring along with rose, even less a thing maintain, for what ever endured the more for marriage with a chain? And who so bold to hold fast to that lasting source of pain but I, and would I blame you for yourself, as you are sane? And every time we kiss, our lips tell more and more a lie, 'cause yours don't say you love me, and mine won't say goodbye.

Now what ne'er had a real beginning must find end; and make me, to me, less to you, so all your inj'ry mend; and leave alone a lover in love still; and name him friend. I'll leave you and your choice alone with time in thought to spend. 'Cause even in our final kiss, your lips told mine a lie. They weren't sure they weren't in love. And they wouldn't say goodbye.


Oh what a tangled web we perceive, when we want so much to believe.

'¦Am I loved, as I love you?
'¦Or do lying lips tell me true?

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