Little sapling growing on the roadside, defying the pitiful looks of passers by, fate has truly given you a poor place to reside,  but one day, you'll grow to touch the sky.

Poor little sapling, struggling to survive, but when you'll grow, under your shade all will thrive...

People look down on you now, rejoice, for when you'll grow, with respect before you they'll bow.

Inspire them you will, and poems of you they'll write, fires will burn beneath you still, in the middle of the night.