The mirrors in the room go black and blue. On a Sunday morning in her Saturday shoes. We don't choose who we love. We don't choose. The lights over the Midway melt on the street. In a Sunday shoes with her Saturday feet. She don't love who he choose. She don't need what she use. Daylight comes and exposes. Saturday's bruises and cold roses. Cold roses. Nothing but the sunlight will help you grow. From underneath your bed you can't see the window. We don't choose what we see. We don't choose. Fortunate and angry just like a child. All that money buys you medicine but can't buy you time. We don't choose what we love. And she don't need what she got. Daylight comes and exposes. Saturday's bruises and cold roses. Cold roses. Cold roses. Cold roses. Cold roses