Roses

The roses are red, the roses are blue, the roses constantly change colors, depending on my mood. They flow down stream where know one dare wishes to go, into the willow to perhaps find a toad. This toad, however, does not wish to be bothered, it stays far out of daylight so it will not ponder, ponder about not being able to catch the most juiciest fly before the seasons begin to change, and everything else soon dies.