| | He called me the wild rose - |
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But my name was Elisa Day |
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Why he called me that I do not know - |
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For my name was Elisa Day |
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From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one, |
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she stared in my eyes and smiled |
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Her lips were the colour of the roses, |
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that grow down the river all bloody and wild |
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When he knocked on my door and entered the room, |
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my trembling subsided in his sure embrace |
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He would be my first man and with a careful hand, |
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he wiped off the tears that run down my face |
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He called me the wild ... |
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On the second day I brought her a flower, |
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she was more beautiful than any woman I'd seen |
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I said "Do you know where the wild roses grow, |
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so sweet and scarlet and free?" |
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On the second day he came with a single red rose, |
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he said "Give me your lust and your sorrow" |
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I nodded my head as I lay on the bed, |
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„If I show you the roses, will you follow?“ |
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He called me the wild ... |
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On the third day he took me to the river, |
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he showed me the roses and we kissed |
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And the last thing I heard was a martyr word, |
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as he knelt above me with a rock in his fist |
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On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow, |
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she lay on the bank going light as a thief |
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And I kissed her goodbye, said all beauty must die |
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and I leant down and planted a rose between her teeth |
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He called me the wild ... |
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