A cankered rose he gave us 'fore the poll,
Though deviously he this new symbol chose;
Clutched to his breast with gestures from his soul -
One crimson rose.

We caught the language of his proffered gift -
'My bleeding bloom our common hearts' blood shows';
The public's pulse throbbed with the hue of it -
One crimson rose.

How is it that he did not tell us then,
Its shade he'd spill in unrepented flows? -
To leave us, after draining drafts again,
One bled white rose.

                    (Apologies to Dorothy Parker)