Roses are red, And ready for plucking, You're sixteen, And ready for high school.
Roses are red Violets are blue Everything's possible Nothing is true.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm schizophrenic, and so am I.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm sick of this poem, you probably are too.
Roses are red, violets are blue, so are my balls thanks to you.
She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
Roses are reddish Violets are bluish If it weren't for Christmas We'd all be Jewish.
No mistake about it. Ice is cold; roses are red; I'm in love. And this love is about to carry me off somewhere. The current's too overpowering; I don't have any choice. It may very well be a special place, some place I've never seen before. Danger may be lurking there, something that may end up wounding me deeply, fatally. I might end up losing everything. But there's no turning back. I can only go with the flow. Even if it means I'll be burned up, gone forever.
There are different interpretations of the problem of universals. I understand it as the problem of giving the truthmakers of propositions to the effect that a certain particular is such and such, e.g. propositions like 'this rose is red'. Others have interpreted it as a problem about the ontological commitments of such propositions or a problem about what those propositions mean.
Violet has the shortest wavelength of the spectrum. Behind it, the invisible ultraviolet. Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. Poor violet, violated for a rhyme.
Roses are red, Violets are blue, No amount of money, Can stop me from loving you, Try as they may, Try as they might, I’m not letting go, Without a fight, Some say it’s wicked, Some say it’s sinful, Some it’s wrong, And just wrong, I don’t know much, But when push comes to shove, I definitely don’t believe, There’s such thing wrong as love.
Roses are red, violets are blue, they got ten, we only got two.
You know that scenario where roses are red, leaves are green, I love arguing that. ‘Why should they be?’. I hate rules and formulas. That’s so boring. It’s the opposite of creativity. Rules are ridiculous things that are meant to be broken.
O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched. Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.
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