Flowers so rare and fine, Missing from this dry world, Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet No ones and none despaired, They then planted their garish Seed in blot sun, most sodden, Soppy soils sprayed which fell On the plainest, most commoner Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought, Then, all who came to view where But gaggles of proud mediocrity Who arrived to revel and preen, Unjust, they remade this earth, Once lively, to be lame, what Celebrations they now need What praises they do crave, Sadly, they could not know, A flower for the weeds.