His teeth are sharp and black and mean, 
His bouquet is tied off with lace. 
His skin is crimson and not very clean, 
His roses as red as his face. 

He stares at me grinning--he won’t go away, 
What am I ever to do? 
This stalemate’s held for a month and a day, 
He doesn’t seem to catch my clue. 

Finally, annoyed, "Satan," 
I yell, "just move on away from here!" 
He doesn’t seem sad that he couldn’t get in, 
He says, "see you in half a year." 

This memory haunts me by day and by night, 
It comes in my darkest of hours. 
My only wish is that I’d done it right, 
And made sure to get the nice flowers.