My friends don't want to hear your name anymore,
My lover hates the thoughts of you...
All who've seen me in your world criticized,
And all who've seen me since, have looked away.
I hope you're happy darling, I really hope you are,
I wish you nothing but the morning star...
I hope she's all you wanted, darling
I really hope she is...
For her, you threw away your promise.

The last of the English Roses

Intelligent and always passionate,

Respectable and absolutely charming,

Elegant and oh so delightful,

He is, my dearest butterfly.

Quiet and oh so insightful,

As delicate, as moonlight itself…

He stands alone, on wings of butterflies,

All too alone and too forgotten.

Perfect in his eloquence,

A painting would not do him justice, he is kind…

His eyes, an emerald that borders icebergs that are pure,

And lips of scarlet on his starlight face.

His looks would make glaciers surrender,

The stone around my heart to turn to dust….

His voice, so honey velvet …

His poetry, pure art!

And in fairytales he lived most of his life,

His soul a brilliance forbidden to us all,

And on this sacred hour,

And in this sacred time,

The last English Rose sleeping in my arms.