A cactus grew in a pretty garden of roses; No one knows how she ended up there. Maybe the wind brought her there from the desert of Moses; Or perhaps she was planted there by the warm summer rain with care.
The cactus had not a friend or a foe; All the pretty roses around her did grow; They looked at her with utter disdain; Away from her, they had to remain.
Year after year the rose bushes grew; Their pretty blossoms and oh the crowds they drew. No one looked at the corner where the old cactus grew; There, only the dirt from their dusty boots flew.
Fed up with her fate the cactus asked the roses: You have thorns, and so do I, Then why are we treated so differently by the passers-by? It's not the thorns that the people look for; it's our bright red blossoms that the people adore. That moment the cactus knew her worth, In the eyes of the world, she was nothing if a blossom she couldn't birth.