The rose is white, it sits on my chest,
Hidden beneath the steel plate of breast.
It watches and waits and bears witness to all,
The slash of steel and when men and blood fall.
There’s a weight in my throat, to cry: À Warwick!
But my charge, he stumbles too soon, too quick.
The thorn of the rose twists, makes a sore,
I curse, throw the reins away, ready for more.
There are hands below, aiding hands I thought,
Then a sword digs, cuts. All hope for nought.
I slump when I want to be straight,
My crown feels leaden with its weight.
Of course, that Stanley!
Switching sides, changing coats. I fall heavily.
The rose, of York, snow petals so pure,
Scatters in the wind. No longer secure.