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;

Not 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.

Author Unknown