THE LONELY WEED
They don’t understand me; call me a weed.
But, like their flowers, I grew from a seed.
I’m just as pretty, if they’d let me live
And, in the right place, I’ve so much to give.
But no, as soon as they notice my shoots,
They reach for a trowel and dig up my roots.
Then, although I haven’t committed a sin,
I find I’m consigned to the compost bin.
I try to hide in amongst all the flowers
And they find me in a matter of hours,
But, if the compost bin’s where it all ends,
At least I’m there with a lot of my friends.
Yet, if they’re driving along the highway
And I’m on the verge, they see it my way.
I get the treatment I’ve always deserved.
I’m a wild flower and I must be preserved.
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