The color we bled
Pluck them from their roots
Their stories, their books
Pluck them for their good looks
It's a flower
Every hour
Till its dead in the dirt
Go ahead, pluck one
I'm sure it won't hurt
Plus the rose
That arose
Pluck the daisy
In the mist, so hazy
Pluck the mushroom
In the panic room
Pluck the roses red
From the graves of the dead
The flower represents
Time's stream, consent
Scream your resent
Because you invention went unsent
Welcome to Heaven
And welcome to hell
Go ahead, pick the flowers
They'll regrow
If you couldn't retell
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