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 then it’s fashion’s old,

The violet is all very well,
But not a flower I’d choose;
Nor yet the Canterbury Bell —
I never cared for blues.”

So it criticized each flower,
This supercilious seed,
Until it woke one Summer hour
To find itself a Weed!!

-Anonymous

Tags: criticism, flower, poetry, seed