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by Isabelle Barton

A little seed lay on the ground and soon began to sprout,
Now which of all the flowers around, it mused....shall I come out?
The lily's face is fair and proud, but just a trifle cold.
The rose, I think is rather loud, and's fashions old.

The violet is all very well but not a flower I'd shoose,
Nor yet the canterberry bell, I never cared for blues.
And so it criticized each flower, this supercilious seed,
Until it woke one summer 'morn and and found it's self....a weed.

So we should take a lesson from this, don't you think? And refrain from criticism, lest we become a weed that has to be weeded out.