Life can't be a bed of roses,
Without thorns to prickle,
He didn't let her see the thorns,
He tickled, tickled, tickled.
But alas, for roses must wilt,
And our flower bed began to tilt,
All left inside now were the quills,
And so she fell so very ill.
He drew his hands in fear of getting,
Pricked, pricked, pricked,
And now she lie on the thorns as time,
Ticked, ticked, ticked.
