I am a rose, can't you see?
I may look pretty, but don't pick me
My fairness grows from deep, puncturing thorns
And my luring color is stained by my victims' poor
So precious I seem, but so nerving to touch
If you search a little further, you'll see that I'm rough
I'm sorry to fool you by my awing display
But you must realize, I'm not the same in most ways
