Oh, my love is like a red, red onion: it's purple, not red. My love is like a red, red dog without a collar, sniffing its way down an alley, smelling for some leavings, lifting a leg to mark what's verticle.
My love is like a red, red car--rusted out, sitting on flat tires in blond weeds and armored thistles.
My love is like a red, red stone in a load of blue river-rock: out of place.
My love is like a red, red scarf worn by Robert Burns on a night of drinking: likely to get left behind.