The Critic
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, its 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."
And so it criticized each flower,
This supercilious seed,
Until it woke one summer morn,
And found itself -- a weed.

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