His name is Rose
good people is what he pose
dirty clothes, creating foes
is the path in life he chose
with the wind is the way this man goes
how God created such a person, no one knows.

No one understands, no one to give a care
the soul inside is nothing but bare
always searching for a fare, always screaming life isn't fair.

You see, this one doesn't get up to try
yet constantly questioning why
tomorrow, he wouldn't care if he died
instead, he sits down, and does nothing but cry.

But have no pity, have no sorrow
when you let him in, he'll do nothing but borrow

Nothing but a cockroach, unable to coach
best not approach, for his dirt you will choke.

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