There was red in my bed in years of yore

something I'd never considered before.

Lost in time, back and back,

a rarity in a rugged sack.

There was red in my bed, she had no clue.

It lurked about before the dew.

Her comfort was to interrupt,

swooning in a way, abrupt.

There was red in my bed, a tip so fine,

either that, or a carnal dine.

Whiteness not to give away,

and "no" was all she had to say.

There was red in my bed. Winter cold

even though she wasn't old.

It's not the end, it just can't be.

But, child, it's a tragedy.