Roses are red, and violets are blue.
By now you've lost interest, haven't you?
That poem is predictable, a bit overdone.
Is that why you stopped loving me, why you chose to run?
I cooked, and I cleaned, and I often remained bare,
covered only with a blanket if the cold became a snare.
I thought this was all men wanted; I was the perfect girl.
I maintained kindness and helpfulness; my smile was always curled.
So why, in the end, was I not enough for you?
I suppose I was too simple...
You don't want roses that are red
and violets that are blue.