Billions have been
trodden under barefoot
toes, in just my humble
life alone.
Weed, weed decry
the masses of
suburbia. Jealous
they can spread so
easily on just the wind.
Dandelion, oh the flower
of our youth. When we were
yet able to forestall the
judgement that a thing could
itself be worthless through and
through. This herald of glory
picked by chubby hands.
While toil we must from
sun to sun to make a
simple meager wage to
tend the need of all our
days we pass upon here
from cradle to grave.
Sacred flower picked endlessly
by the harbingers of whimsy
and delight. Might I never lose
my infatuation with your downy
flower and bitter leaves; the purple
in your stem ever the vein of joy.
Arise each year, again and again,
and cause the miserable to grumble.
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