I've fallen into a rosebush,
For I was in far too much of a rush,
Now I lay stuck, and fresh out of luck,
As I scramble in the bramble.

But this bush is not as it seems,
For there is movement at the seams.
The movement is hushed,
And my pleas it has shushed,
As it beams into my dreams.

It's too late,
I can't change my fate,
Give up on the fight,
And everything will be alright.

I scream and I shout,
But no one is willing to bring this change about.
Only too late do I see,
That there are hundreds of others just like me.
None of them thinking,
Their wills shrinking,
Lost to the rosebush,
Their voices a collective hush.

But not all is lost,
Because at a great cost,
I have written this warning:
**Beware the rosebush if your individuality you will be mourning.