Once there was a rose,
As black as this prose.
It lay wilting by the fire;
Left alone, black desire.
Lusting, living, loving, wanting –
Past it's time, beauty done flaunting.
No more allurances, no more sweet smells,
Only mournful funeral bells.
As petals fall to the ground,
Silently drifting, devoid of sound,
A knife glitters in the distance away,
Silver through and through, glinting like day.
The last true Marauder, overcome with strife –
Now looked up into the blade of the cold, silver knife.
Last no longer he couldn't, without Padfoot and or Prongs,
And this is how the werewolf sings his songs.
With a swift cut to the jugular, it was all over;
Later blood tests showed that he was surely sober.
He couldn't bare it, all alone, or so they say –
Just because a Black Rose was wilting away.