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She was a flower for the takin' |
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Her beauty cut just like a knife |
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He was a banker from |
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MaconHe swore he'd love her all a his life |
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He bought her a mansion on the mountain |
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With a formal garden and a lot a land |
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But paradise became her prison |
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That Georgia banker was a jealous man |
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Every time he'd talk about her |
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You could see the fire in his eyes |
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He'd say, "I would walk through hell on SundayTo keep my rose in paradise" |
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He hired a man to tend the garden |
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And keep an eye on her while he was gone |
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Some say they ran away together |
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Some say that gardener left alone |
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Now the banker is an old man |
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That mansion's crumbling down |
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He sits all day and he stares at the garden |
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Not a trace of her was ever found |
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Every time he'd talks about her |
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You could see the fire in his eyes |
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He'd say, "I would walk through hell on SundayTo keep my rose in paradise" |
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Now there's a rose out in the garden |
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It's beauty cuts just like a knife |
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They say that it even grows in the winter time |
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And blooms in the dead of the night |
