What's come to stay from the cannonball days,
But a house and some clothes on the line.
You fired away with your drunken brigade
In the streets of New York as a child
Woman so fine, fine as a girl,
Slow like an Italian wine,
Hair all a mess, dress all disheveled
And all of your roses have died.

Better luck in the next life,
Cause your gonna need it dear.
Loved you back then, but I couldn't say when,
All of your roses have died.
All of your roses have died.

I tasted your lips, put my hands on your hips,
Danced in apartment A-9,
Your cats on the sill, and my head to your breast,
Feeding your rhythms divine.

A west Jersey queen with a rattle machine,
Tasted the salt through your skin,
Loved you back then, but I couldn't say when,
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All of your roses have died.

Better luck in the next life,
Give them some hell and goodbye.
Loved you back then, but I couldn't say when,
All of your roses have died.
All of your roses have died.

Bask in the heat down on Christopher Street,
Bought you a rose from a bum,
Left you a note, that I stuffed in your coat,
You laughed and you said it was dumb.

Broke like a stem, and I guess you're with him,
I'm sure that he treats you just fine.
So bottoms up cheers baby here's to your tears,
All of your roses have died.

Better luck in the next life,
I'll miss you but go on goodbye.
I feel like a straight from his cannonball days,
When all of your roses were mine.
When all of your roses were mine.

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