A little seed lay in the ground
and soon began to sprout.
" Now which of all the fowers 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 its fashion's old.
The violet is all very well
But not a flower I'd choose,
Nor yet a canterbury bell, I never cared for blues."
And so it critized each flower,
This supercilious seed,
Until it woke one summer morn
And found itself a weed.
Auther unknown
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