Rose Fever

Feverish in the night’s middle,

The wind is hollow, the rocks are brittle.

Your heart is beating, and you’re warm inside,so..

I’ve got the Rose Fever, I’m your sick, pretty psycho.

Got milk? I’ve got your Mad Cow Disease.

Obsessed? I’m drop-dead deceased.

Impressed? Perhaps, but not very pleased.

Hexed? 666, now I’m summoning the beast.

My bloodshot eyes itch, my final coffin for the nail.

Foam comes out my mouth, my skin is turning pale.

If I catch the Rose Fever, I hope I will get better.

If I’m not there to tell you, I’ll keep sending love letters.

Coughing up the blood, you’d think I would have Crohn's Disease.

Forehead’s a million degrees.

My illness leaves behind its own debris.