Red houses are red, White houses are white, But I'm not named after the color of my exterior. In fact, I don't have a color of my own.

In puddle parades, these rubbery guardians march, keeping toes dry beneath the darkest clouds' tears.

It has the house surrounded And very well grounded Some made with sod, some from seed. All need time taken to weed.

You'll find me on the sweetest rose, biding my time to make you bleed.

Is it alive or is it dead? Is its fate all in your head? Lifting the box assuming its demise. Aren't you lucky it has nine lives?