In spring, the gardens blossom more and more,
And roses, tulips, bleeding hearts rejoice.
But lurking ’neath the primrose-dotted floor
Lie victims of the gardener’s own choice.
“Remove the weeds!” they say, while shooing ants,
“It doesn’t matter when or where they’ve grown!”
But what are weeds, if not just other plants?
Why pull us out, and leave the rest alon…
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