She was called a scarlet woman by the people,
Who would go to church but left me in the street,
With no parents of my own, I never had a home,
And an eighteen year old boy has got to eat.

She found me outside one Sunday morning,
Taking money from a man I didn't know,
She took me in and wiped away my childhood,
woman of the streets this Lady Rose.

This bed of roses that I lay on,
Where I was taught to be a man,
This bed of roses where I'm living,
Is the only kind of love I understand.

She was a handsome woman, just thirty-four,
Who was spoken to in town by very few.
She managed a late evening business,
Like most of the town wished they could do.

And I learned all the things that a man should know,
From a woman not approved of I suppose,
But she died knowing that I really loved her,
Off life's bramble bush,I picked a rose.