You stand proudly in the lawn, strong, brave weed.
The grass is lifeless in the August heat,
The flowers, drooping, have all gone to seed,
The parched, thirsty earth as hard as concrete.
You, brave weed, ignore the sun and drought
And somehow survive Mother Nature's wrath,
Thriving in the face of adversity.
You, weed, without a doubt,
Will stand fearlessly in the mower's path
And once chopped down, rise with alacrity.
Don't forget, brave weed, you have a name - or two.
One in Latin, of course, for the scientists,
And one for gardeners, who turn the air blue
While doing battle with their antagonists.
You, brave weed, will not cower or bow down,
Kowtow, beg, grovel or give up one inch.
You'll take their best shot, but you will not die.
You will be back, and they'll frown.
They can whack, hack or just give you a pinch.
You, brave weed, will not whimper, will not cry.
Alas, brave weed, with your million virtues,
You are unloved and the object of scorn.
You spring to life; the gardener blows a fuse,
Cursing your beauty; he'd rather see corn.
You're daring, persistent, hardworking, brave,
The very traits we're urged to cultivate.
And yet your beauty is disparaged
By every weak-willed knave
Who lives in fear that you will procreate
Wildly and not bother to get marriaged.
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