Testo Decom-Posuer

She's a painting, out of focus. With the good sense, of attention She's authentic. She's a model, of disaster With the heart of, revolution She's so innocent, but guilty to plead Everybody wants to save her. From herself, they really want to save themselves She's got the grace, of a tourist With the charm of, demolition She's a poem, without meter or rhyme A random design, of a flower. Like a rose, no one really knows She's a master, he's disserving. Restoration or contemption Time will tell us, is she a live bone? Or a decom-poser? She is Rose, no one really knows.