There're all kinds of roses
But none are as handsome as the ones
That you own hands have grown
They bring as much hope
Leave as much satisfaction
As anything that I've ever known

But it ain't in their petals
That I'm seeking the fortune
It's in the weeds and the hedges and lawns
Of the fortunate people
Who can't stand in the gardens
And feel only time marching on

With the world on a string
To remind them of where they can go
And what they ought to be
Without a whole lot to say
To the fella they pay
To cut the grass growing underneath their feet

A rose can't see its own beauty
Or feel what it's meant to symbolize
Doesn't stop and smell anything on its journey
From the soil to the light
Just wants the best for itself and its family
And God help me so do I
And so does everybody
So I head out each morning
With a smile and a wave
For whomever looks up from their work
'Cause who knows in a while
It could be my own child

With the world on a string
To remind her of where they can go
And what she ought to be
Without a whole lot to say
To the fella she pays
To cut the grass growing underneath her feet
May green grow the grass undernath our children's feet

Copyright: Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
Writer(s): Christopher Curtin Eldridge, Christopher Scott Thile, Gabriel John Witcher, Noam David Pikelny, Paul Frederick Kowert